


The Itsy-Bitsy Detective

by MusicalProstituteMyDear



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, BAMF Joan Watson, Babbling, Caregiver!Joan, Childhood Trauma, Diapers, Domestic Fluff, Don't Like Don't Read, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Infantilism, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Negotiations, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, Self-Indulgent, Separation Anxiety, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, TW mentions of drug usage, TW mentions of needles, Thumb-sucking, baby!Sherlock - Freeform, little!sherlock, possibly out of character but who cares NOT ME, swaddling, they joke about sex but this side of their relationship is pure y'all!, tw mentions of suicide, will add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalProstituteMyDear/pseuds/MusicalProstituteMyDear
Summary: Joan would always care for Sherlock. When his nightmares return, she suggests a way for him to deal with them and finally get some rest. Follow Holmes and Watson's relationship as they explore the wonders of age regression!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson (Elementary), Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 83





	1. A Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> I literally started binging Elementary two days ago, just finished season one today—to say the least, I'm obsessed. This is some serious self-indulgence you're about to delve into. Presently working on the next chapter, should be up shortly. Enjoy!

It was a cold winter’s eve the night Joan Watson introduced the notion of regression to Sherlock Holmes. They had been running off of approximately two hours of sleep, four cups of coffee, and not a single wink of peace when they’d finally bagged Darcy Wessex’s killer. She was a kind soul, a psychologist who'd written a few books about the topic early in her career, before becoming a professor at Columbia. Funny enough, the perpetrator had been a New York City-based cremator and was paid by Wessex’s deranged ex-fiance to murder her and finish the deal by shipping her ashes to him. So that he could _eat_ her. Thankfully, they were able to secure what was left of the poor girl and ensure her family was in possession of her remains. Suffice to say, when the NYPD closed the case for good, Holmes and Watson alike were thankful for yet another successful job well done. 

Covered nearly head-to-toe in blood, feet sore and bruised from running amok, they walked back to the brownstone in reverent silence. Once the door had been closed and locked behind them, they shared a glance. Sherlock could tell Joan had something rather pressing that was non-work related plaguing her thoughts, and that she had finally been ready to discuss it with him.

If only he’d known what she was about to get them into. 

Joan took a deep breath. “Sherlock—”

“My sincerest apologies, my dear Watson, but I am in neither an appropriate nor sound mental state to partake in sexual activities with you at this time. Perhaps on a separate occasion you should find—”

“Oh, you’re exhausting, no!” she laughed aloud, to which he was happy to join in. It was nice to know his spirits remained high, even in times of intensity.“I-I wanted to talk to you about something. Something serious.”

The detective cocked an eyebrow at his companion. “I haven’t the slightest as to what this might be. And even so, you know you are no longer required to play ‘hall monitor’ to my impulses, I see no reason for you to plan an intervention of any sort.”

She sighed in exasperation. “Can I continue, please?”

Sherlock hums in anticipation.

Joan walks from the door over to the living room’s coffee table, Sherlock trailing shortly there behind. She picks up a stack of papers printed out weeks prior, flipping through them to ensure they were all still present. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about this sort of thing now, but…” Joan looked at him with sad eyes. “I know your nightmares have been making a comeback.”

“Watson, enough of thi—”

“No! No, I won’t have you put yourself on the backburner any longer, Sherlock Holmes,” she stated. “If you don’t think I can’t hear you when you’re up late at night, crying your heart out, you’re mistaken. I’m beyond sorry about what happened with... _her_ , and how she hurt you so deeply, but I don’t want you to suffer. I want you to heal.” Joan hands them all over to him, and she can pinpoint the instant the gears in his mind begin to whirl as he scans them over. “I’m positive you’re familiar with Freud’s defense mechanisms. I think it’d be worth your while, Sherlock. You’ve worked at full capacity under a lot of heavy circumstances, and regression therapy has a copious amount of proven benefits.”

He gets about halfway through before speaking up. “You wish to... infantilize me, Watson? Because I got my feelings hurt, because of Irene? I must say, I’m flattered you think so little of me.”

Joan shook her head.“No, Sherlock, I never said that. Life has taken its toll on you, I just want to—”

“Want to do what, dress me up and down as you please, bottle feed me, parade me around to our colleagues as the genius who allowed you to retrogress himself?” He stops reading to meet her eye, yet knew he would find no malicious intent lying beyond them; and he didn’t. Sherlock Holmes loved his partner, as she loved him, and was sure that Joan only wished the best for him. Yet, he had no idea what to make of the massive informational avalanche that she had catalysed onto him. Notwithstanding the fact that the only reason he ate, slept, took a shower, or attended to his bodily needs was because Joan had pressed him to, there was still something dodgy in his head about taking on such a new headspace. Unquestionably, as long as they kept this facet of their dynamic separate from their professional one, there shouldn’t be any arising complications. 

He knew this would require some intense thought, but at present he was beyond tired. Sherlock dropped the stack of papers back on the table in his restlessness. “Well, thank you for the veiled concern. I will be turning in for the evening. Good night, Watson.”

While she knew he likely wouldn’t be sleeping, nonetheless she was left to her own devices. 

* * *

That next morning, Joan found Sherlock at his usual spot at the kitchen table sipping on a cup of (what she assumed was) coffee, papers sprawn out in an ungodly manner about the surface. He was biting at the end of a pen, clearly deep in focus until she made her presence known to him. She deduced that he’d been awake for hours (judging by the disheveledness of his hair and the pronounced circles beneath his eyes), but what she found as most shocking was that he was actually _reading_ the articles she gave him. 

“What’s all this?” she questioned, taking the seat adjacent to him.

“Ah, Watson!” Sherlock exclaimed, a wide smile plastered on his face. “I spent all night reading over the material you gave me and have been doing some research on the nature of this new ideation of ‘regression’ myself.”

“Look, I’m sorry for barging in on your personal matter, Sherlock—”

“I even purchased an e-book of one of Darcy's first novels. _Little v. Big Me: How to Give in to Your Childish Tendencies._ Truly revolutionary." He flashed the cover art to her, which had a charming little illustration of a young man and young woman, adorned in juvenile clothing, sitting inside an over-sized play-pen. "I quite enjoy what I’ve been finding, Watson.” 

To say that Joan was taken aback was an understatement. Hell, most days it took him hours to decide what he was in the mood to eat, how on Earth did he comply so easily? She lightly shook her head to ground herself back to the situation at hand and composed herself. “T-That’s great, Sherlock, but what finally convinced you? I was under the impression you thought I was going to... I don’t know, throw you a baby shower and make a fool out of you in front of Marcus.” 

Sherlock took a sip of his (now iced) coffee and noticed that Joan was still in her pajamas, indicating that she intended to stay in the rest of the day—since they had gone the whole morning without a call from Gregson, it meant their services likely wouldn’t be required until tomorrow. “Well, I’m flattered you’d consider going to such extremes, but to be frank, it does seem rather fun. At least, a brand of fun I have yet to be accustomed to. The rug of my childhood was essentially ripped from beneath me. You know, with the boarding school nonsense and all. I would like to experience those years and enjoy them at least once in my lifetime.”

Joan blinked. “Oh, and not to mention Watson, I’ve always found you pleasantly maternal, especially in your days as my sober companion.” Sherlock finished his drink and stood up from his chair. “Now, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a small amount of paraphernalia I saw as necessary which should arrive,” he checked the clock on his laptop, “any moment now, if you find you are likewise ready to begin the experiment.”

“Experiment?”

Sherlock only inclined his head, gaze at the computer screen never wavering. “Yes. Today will serve as a trial run. If we both reep satisfaction from this: me, requiring the parental care of another, you, taking pleasure in providing such care, I think we’ll be able to properly create an updated set of rules for us to follow. An experiment, which we can recreate and build off of, as we please.”

All she was able to do was nod. 

“Splendid!" Sherlock declared. "Um, but I do have one question, before we start.”

Joan looked at him intently. “Yes?”

Sherlock Holmes, a man of many walls, cleared his throat and let each one of them come crashing down.

“Do you… Do you think you could draw me a bath?”


	2. Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Pure fluff ahead. You have been warned. Currently working on a sound plotline for this, will keep you updated!

The doorbell rang exactly two minutes later. 

When Sherlock had mentioned the paraphernalia, Joan expected—at most—a few items. In all honesty, she had no idea where they were going to begin, as she couldn’t even guess what age-range he would fall into. Perhaps a meddlesome toddler prone to excessive injury, or an independent little boy that was far too smart for his own good... What amused Joan was that she couldn’t seem to picture Sherlock as a physical child; just as Athena sprung forth fully grown from Zeus’ frons, so too had Sherlock Holmes. But, it was becoming apparent that she’d learn soon enough where the detective fell, and she was growing somewhat excited to discover for herself. 

Upon his present question, though, Joan found a small smile had comfortably settled on her face—if this was going to work, she was going to have to learn to relax, as well. “Yes, of course. Why don’t you head upstairs? I’ll be up shortly.”

Just like that, he returned the expression of gratitude, placed his mug in the sink, and made his way to their shared bathroom. When Joan answered the front door, she signed for two large packages and brought them upstairs to her room, placing them on her freshly made-up bed. They’d open them together once the state of Sherlock’s filth had been dealt with. Once she retrieved some fresh towels and a bottle of bubble bath from the linen closet (which she had used on only one occasion prior, for her own ‘self-care’), she opened the door to the washroom and couldn’t believe her eyes. There he stood, in the raw, hands behind his back as he glanced out the window. No doubt, if Joan wasn’t so stunned, she certainly would’ve been laughing her tuckus off. 

“God, you’re completely naked!” she observed, and was quick to divert her attention, covering her eyes with her free hand so not to intrude on his blatant nudité. “Why are you completely naked?”

Sherlock, as expected, was as nonplussed as Joan was shaked. “It’s not like you’ve never seen me in the nude before today! I’m ripping off the metaphorical bandaid, Watson.” He takes a moment to gesture to the space between them. “Once the growing pains of today are treated, I’m sure the sessions to follow will slowly fall into a far more harmonious rhythm. Now that we’ve gotten this out of the way...” 

Joan couldn’t help but elicit an embarrassed titter—how he always managed to be correct truly amazed her. “Y-You’re right, I apologise.” She set the towels down on the top of the toilet seat and exhaled deeply throughout her nose. With the turning of a nozzle, the room was flooded with the sounds of rushing bathwater. Pouring a generous amount of the bubble bath into the tub, she looked up to her charge and beamed. “C’mon, in you get.” 

And so, he did.

In no manner sexual for either of them (they agreed when Sherlock regressed it would be on a sole parent/child basis), the act of bathing another person, they realised, was incredibly intimate. Sherlock could feel every inch of himself relax and slip deeper into a younger headspace as Joan scrubbed the weeks-old grime and turbulence from his physique. She was glad to see that, as she washed his back, Sherlock appeared to be delighting in one of life’s most simple pleasures: bubbles! He giggled freely as he placed them on the top of his head, even on his face to create a makeshift beard. What joy they brought him! Where there once was an acerbic Englishman, it sounded as though a carefree little boy sat in their bathtub, in his place. 

“Is the water warm enough?” Joan asked, washing the conditioner out of his hair. Sherlock nodded. “Good, well, do you want to play for a little longer or do you want to come out?”

“Hmm…” Sherlock thought plainly. “Play?”

“Of course,” Joan smiled, wiping some stray soap off of his face before it got in his eyes. “I know, not the most exciting this time around, but I promise I’ll get you some toys for your next bath. Sounds good?”

“Yes!” He agreed, taking another handful of the soap, examining it. “But these…” in reference to the bubbles, “are exquisite. Bubble baths have been entertaining children for generations, and I have a feeling it’ll be many more before they become obsolete.”

For the next ten or so minutes, they remained in the bathroom. Sherlock babbling away about the history of bathing, Joan making comments of interest here and there, each of them listening and basking in each other’s company. Joan drained the tub, washed the excess soap off of his body, and dried him off. She wrapped Sherlock in one of the oversized towels, guiding him into her bedroom to get him ready for the rest of their day together. 

What Sherlock did next was... peculiar. While Joan was busy opening the packages, he found that in his waiting for her next move, his thumb had found refuge in his mouth. He gave a few quiet, timid sucks to the digit to see if he felt any different. Babies certainly didn’t get enough credit for their coping methods, he concluded, as he found the pit that was beginning to grow at the bottom of his stomach slowly subsided into nothingness. 

Joan had been grateful one of the first items she picked out of the box had been a simple, mustard-yellow pacifier, which she was quick to tear from it’s plastic confines and gently nudge into his mouth.

“No, Sherlock,” she said tenderly to him. “Icky.” Which evoked no fuss from the boy, thankfully, as he just went right back to sucking.

Next, she retrieved some fluffy socks, a three-pack of glass bottles (with the rubber teats), another pacifier, baby lotion, and a bundle of... pull-ups? No, upon further inspection, Joan gathered that _the_ Sherlock Holmes had bought legitimate, adult-sized nappies. Tabs and all. _Huh,_ she thought to herself. It may have looked like a lot on the outside, but it really wasn’t; fortunately though, enough to get them started, and more than enough for him to loudly convey to her exactly what he needed.

“Alright, mister,” Joan began. “I’m gonna have you lie down for me.”

Eager to please, Sherlock followed her every instruction. She rubbed the baby lotion onto every inch of him, softly brushed out the knots in his hair, and cleaned out the muck from underneath his fingernails. He didn’t make one peep as she went about cleaning him up, the only sounds she registered were the tentative _tchk, tchk_ of the pacifier bobbing in and out of his mouth every so often.

And then, Joan knew what was left to do. Sure, when all of her college buddies had babies, she offered to change them. Which was only doable because of the obvious size differences between them—Sherlock, in the nicest way possible, was far bigger than a normal infant. Nonetheless, she carefully removed one of the nappies from the package and spread it out under his bottom once he lifted his hips for her.

To say the least, Joan was struggling. Ever-focused on the task at hand, she peered down at her charge for a moment only to find that he paused suckling on his dummy, taking it out with a ‘pop.’ “You’re extraordinarily bad at this, you know,” he snided playfully. “I know for certain that my father—who has never so much as glanced in the mere direction of a pitiful tot—would _far_ surpass you in your diapering skills.”

Joan sighed, doing as best she could to pretend she overlooked his mocking. “Yeah, well, I don’t think you’re in the position to be making such criticisms, little guy,” Joan retorted, gazing down at the half-naked Sherlock on the towel below. “Will you _please_ stop squirming? This is taking much longer than it needs to.” 

Sherlock was positively pouting at that point. His bits were starting to grow cold, and it was obvious the boy was growing increasingly fussy—Joan sensed she was desperately running out of time. Scanning the room, she noticed that her ring of keys had been discarded on the floor. In hopes of easing his uncharacteristic anxieties, she picked them up and—for some instinctive reason—jangled them in his line of sight. She could tell whatever it was they were doing to him was working, as Sherlock became fixated upon them, reaching out for the keys to inspect them for himself. Just as any other five-month old would be, he was in awe, fiddling with her house, mail, and car keys—Joan read somewhere that babies were simply ‘little scientists,’ always searching for new ways to help them make sense of the world around them. Her heart melted at the comparison, and figured it would certainly be more accurate to call him her little detective, instead.

Joan finished the task at hand, successfully taping him into the nappy; she didn’t have any talcum powder handy, but she figured his bum going one day without it wouldn’t make him chafe. As it was the middle of winter, she finished the job by putting him into a pair of grey sweatpants, his favourite Batman t-shirt, and a new pair of the fluffy socks he’d purchased. One of these days, they’d go shopping for more... appropriate regression clothes. For now, the sweatpants would do. 

As she was putting away the supplies, finally helping him sit up, Sherlock decided the keys were no longer entertaining and was left to fidget with the ring part of his pacifier. 

“Joanie?” 

Watson couldn’t recall a time where Sherlock had ever referred to her as anything but her last name. Upon examining him once again, she sensed that something shifted in his mannerisms and even his physical appearance. The eyes that once were plagued with ever-present suspicion were now pliant, kinder even. His brow unfurled, his shoulders lost their tension, his hands were no longer clenched in ready fists... his regression was _working!_

Joan cooed at the title given to her by the now far younger Holmes. “Yes, Sherlock?”

It was a moment before he had the courage to say anything, until finally the softest, most saccharine voice made itself known to her. A new voice. One that wasn’t riddled with pressure or sharp in tone. “May I have some water, please?”

If Joan had thought her heart had dissipated into goo before, she was sorely mistaken—baby Sherlock simply got sweeter by the second. 

“Oh, such good manners!” Joan praised, which tinted the boy’s cheeks the most darling shade of pink. “Yes, you may. Why don’t we go downstairs and have a nap, you and I.”

Placing the pacifier back in his mouth, Sherlock took Joan’s open palm. Before they went back downstairs, she made sure to tuck the glass bottles under her arm. He patiently sat at the kitchen table while she sterilised the bottles, which only took about five minutes. Filing one with some filtered water, they took their place on the living room sofa. Joan did as best she could to cradle him in her loving arms, tilting the bottle slightly so that he was able to drink at a slow pace. 

When he’d finished, Joan took the blanket that was draping over the edge of the couch and covered them both in it. That January morning, they caught sight of a crisp snowfall from inside the warm brownstone, and cuddled endearingly close to one another for the rest of the day. Joan watched as his eyelids began to gradually flutter until they were completely shut and his breathing evened out. Sherlock comfortably nuzzled his face into the space between her neck and collarbone, humming contentedly at the newfound serenity that had washed over and settled into his body.

Just like every other long, unsteady road they had traveled down before, there was no way in Hell they would be giving up any time soon, despite the fact that it would be quite a while until they were completely settled into this aspect of their relationship. She placed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, lightly resting her cheek against it as she brushed through his baby-soft hair with her fingers.

“I love you, Sherlock. I’m so proud of you,” Joan whispered. “You deserve this.”


	3. You Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is having some trouble fully accepting his little side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This chapter will pretty much cover some ~business~ then we're going full-steam ahead into the fluff. Enjoy!

Joan took Sherlock to bed with her that night. He would whine and fuss if she so much as lifted a finger, so getting him back upstairs whilst little was no easy task—she considered looking into heavy weight-lifting. She awoke to the brightness of the winter’s light glaring through the pristine clouds, and into her bedroom. Stretching, Joan turned over on her side to catch a glimpse of the sweetest sight: her partner, pacifier locked between his lips, fists tucked beneath his chin. It was such a grand change of pace to see him so tranquil! Prior to yesterday, Joan could recall only a handful of instances where he wasn’t bouncing off the walls trying to locate killers or racking his brain with burdensome questions only he believed he could solve. She took a moment to glance at her phone, charging on the nightstand to her left. The time indicated it was half-past nine; Gregson had sent her a text that they were needed at the station, but indicated nothing was urgent. Unplugging it from the cable, her finger dances across the screen before it settles on the ‘camera’ feature—how could she not capture the adorableness before her? Smiling at the snapshot, she used the same finger to lightly stroke his cheek, up and down for a minute or so until she saw him begin to stir.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Joan greeted, withdrawing her hand. She figured she wouldn’t tell him about the case until she got a sense of what he was like if/when he came back from his headspace. 

Sherlock yawned and used one of his fists to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled around the pacifier before deciding upon pulling it out. Joan could tell he was obviously embarrassed, but she was simply glad that he was able to sleep through the night without any complications. 

Joan relaxed further into her pillows, enjoying the short amount of time she had left with her ‘little’ companion. “Sleep well?” she asked, meeting his big, blue eyes. 

Gazing down at the yellow dummy, as if talking to the inanimate object itself, Sherlock said he did. “Mhm. Did you, Joanie?” 

This voice was quiet, almost meek, which Joan could differentiate from his usually cutting, acute timbre. Little Sherlock was certainly endearing—he seemed shy, which left Joan the slightest bit confused: was his regressed state-of-mind a shadow of an insight into who he was as a legitimate child, or was this younger version of her partner tapping into his unconscious needs? The need to be nurtured and coddled after a rough case, held tight and told he was safe by the woman he adored most in the whole work? Joan couldn’t wait to learn about him, but in the meantime, she had to drag them both out of the fantasy world they had built in the span of mere days. 

“I did, thank you for asking.” She pressed a loud kiss to his cheek, which made him giggle. “Oh, someone’s got a case of the giggles this morning, is that so?”

And with that, Joan began to pepper the surface area of his face with even more kisses, resulting in louder giggling from the boy who was very much still in littlespace.

“Silly…”

“You’re a silly goose.” As much as she didn’t want to, Joan climbed out of bed and made her way to get ready for their day at work, leaving him to giggle some more to himself. Once the intense wave of hilarity made its way out of his system, the little detective did his best to come out of the blissful high of littlespace until he wiggled about to check the contents of his nappy and was instantly disgusted with himself—it was _wet_. 

Sherlock shot out of bed and ran to his room, tore off the sopping garment and heard it ‘plop’ onto the hardwood floor below. Realising he’d made the wrong decision, he picked it back up, ran downstairs, threw it in the garbage pail, and waddled his way upstairs to put on his adult clothes and at least pretend as though he was a functioning grown man.

Some time later, Sherlock met Joan downstairs with not even half of the buttons of his shirt done and his pants hanging belt-less off his waist. 

“Watson. It appears this post-regression stint has made itself known to my fine motor skills. I doubt we’ll be able to make it to the station before they come back in full, so I was wondering if I could get some...” 

Joan was eating up the glower painted on his face, barely being able to hold back an audible laugh. 

“Some assistance?”

Face tomato-crimson with self-consciousness, the semi-adult man dipped his head in a silent ‘yes.’ Joan moved her hair from off of her shoulder and went over to help him. “I know buttons are hard, aren’t they, my big little man?”

The overt comment made Sherlock feel smaller than he wanted to admit. He’d spent all that time trying to age up, and now he didn’t want to go into work today, he just wanted to be with his Joanie! Joanie, who gave him lots of kisses and warm bubble baths, and fed him out of a bottle— 

Sherlock’s train of thought stopped dead in its tracks. The fact that they weren’t even forty-eight hours into these regression sessions and he was already so comfortable scared him. Hell, _terrified_ him. He’d spent his entire life essentially focusing on his work, pushing aside any mushy-gushy feelings that would cloud his brilliant mind, _geniusly_ crafting the facade that allowed him to secure a venerated name for himself as an investigator in two continents, and here he was, risking it all for his selfish enjoyment! 

Of all the knowledge that was swimming about in Sherlock Holmes’ mind, of one thing he was certain: he was the most intellectual mind of his generation... he was _not_ a burbling infant. 

The Brit cleared his throat. “I hypothesise we won’t be able to go back to playing house later. And besides, Watson, I rarely see this as an everyday occurrence, we’re both incredibly busy enough as is.” He took hold of the lapels of his jacket and adjusted them further, doing his best to shake himself free from the confines of comfort. They both knew exactly what they wanted, what they needed, no less. But they determined it was best to merely forget, and put on their mask of professionalism. Disappointed, Joan gave him a sad look.

“Come, Watson. New York needs us.”

* * *

Sherlock was downright cranky for the duration of the week. To say that the days following his first regression were ‘smooth sailing’ was being far too kind. Disastrous. Catastrophic. Calamitous. All words parading through Joan’s head by late afternoon on Saturday. That day, he was excessively talking back to Captain Gregson and Bell, their colleagues, not to mention the suspects of their newest case. Joan was appalled; she knew Sherlock was likely under a lot of stress and didn’t hold any regard for compassion in times of strain, but that was no excuse to treat others as poorly as he was doing. Everyone in the office was giving Joan these sorry glances, and she took them with full force. They had such a wonderful night together, surely he should’ve been in an agreeable mood over his current temperament. _What on earth sparked all this?_ Joan wondered.

Following a short coffee break on behalf of their unit, Joan’s extent of exhaustion with her companion had grown past simply being ‘fed up.’ When Sherlock had made a young girl—who’d just lost her father, mind you—cry, she took him by the hand like the petulant child he was and dragged him to an empty meeting room. After properly shutting all the blinds, she got down to business.

“Sit down,” she snapped.

Sherlock only blinked at her. “There’s nothing to discuss, Wa—”

“I said. Sit. _Down._ ”

The foul expression on his face vanished in an instant’s notice. With wide eyes, Sherlock did as she said and looked up at his partner, who was still seething with mild anger.

Joan sighed and began to massage her temples as she took notice of him. Even in the adult/regular sized plastic chair, he looked... tiny. “What’s wrong with you today? Whatever put you in this sore attitude, I’ve had enough of it. Marcus and the Captain haven’t done anything to deserve it either, Sherlock.”

“They kept asking me humdrum questions easy enough to figure out for themselves!” The detective whined. “Just because I’m smarter than everyone I ever come in contact with doesn’t mean I have to continually explain _simple_ abstractions to them! It spoils my fun.”

Narrowing her scrutiny, Joan studied him. “After you’ve told me what’s got you acting this way, you’re going to apologise to them. No buts.”

He groaned. “But, they said—”

“ _Sherlock_!” She scolded. Calming herself down, she continued. “Please. I just want to help.”

“Promise?”

Huh. Definitely not what Joan was expecting. Nevertheless, she nodded. “I promise. I’m not mad. Just help me understand, honey.”

Sherlock slouched his back and stuck his hands in between his legs, casting his gaze on the fake tile below. “I... I wet myself last night.”

“You did?”

“That night, when I regressed, I…” Sherlock took his hands out from underneath his legs to make grand gestures with his arms, signifying the obvious fact that he did indeed wake to a very drenched nappy. “I’m scared of who I’ll become, moreso what I’ll lose, if I let myself slip further into this version of myself I have yet to fully comprehend. Uncharted territory is often feared, Watson.”

It all made sense to Joan, now. Of course Sherlock would’ve become upset with himself for something like that. As his eyes welled up with tears, Joan opened her arms to him, knowing he was too prideful to ask for a hug himself. In a hair’s breadth of a second, he flung himself into her comforting embrace, letting the tears flow freely. They stayed like that for a short while, with her rubbing soothing circles onto his heaving back, shushing and swaying with him, who was silently crying into her blouse. 

After she made sure he would be alright if she broke their squeeze, she cupped his wet face in her hands, meeting his wobbly eyes. “This doesn’t need to _be_ an experiment, Sherlock,” she told him. “You don’t have to justify your regression to anyone, especially yourself. You should just do it because you like it, and because you deserve a break from all the hard work you do. You should be able to enjoy it without feeling guilty, or like you don’t deserve it, because you _do._ You deserve to relax, and to be solaced after you’ve had a rough day. You wet yourself the other night, alright, so who cares? You were little, and you were comfortable. That’s all that matters. _You_ matter, Sherlock.” 

Her last comment particularly touched him and elicited a fresh bout of tears. Joan was more than happy to just pet his hair and murmur sweet nothings into his ear. After nearly a lifetime of prioritising essentially everything else over his own emotions, the great Sherlock Holmes gave himself the honour of feeling whatever it was he felt in that very moment: _loved._ No wonder he was so emotional! It all made sense to Joan.

“And besides,” she said matter-of-factly, “you were wearing a diaper. You know I’ll always be there to change you.”

He laughed at her remark, then let himself be kissed on his forehead by his companion-turned-caregiver. 

“But, don’t think you get out of apologising to everyone you’ve hurt today,” she went on, disregarding the judgmental look from her charge. “It’s better to get it over with sooner rather than later, right?”

Sherlock sniveled. “Right... I’m sorry, Joanie.”

Joan cooed. “It’s alright, my big little man. And, after you’ve gotten that out of the way, I think it’s time we head home so I can put someone in his comfy new jammies~”

The Brit made a skeptical face at her. “I-I’m not in the proper headspace for you to be talking to me in such a fashion whilst we are still at work, mind you.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be little just to earn my affections, you silly goose.”

“Joanie, geese are foolish and stupid! I hold _neither_ of those attributes!”

Unlocking the meeting room door and holding it open for him, Joan smiles. “No, you most definitely do not.”

Thankfully, they were able to make it through the rest of the day without blowing their cover. Gregson and Bell graciously accepted Sherlock’s apologies for exposing his “cool” earlier on, without also silently thanking Joan for convincing him to actually say sorry. Needless to say, the instant they were secured in their home, Sherlock let himself he held sans a trace of liability. As his littlespace consumed his every tense muscle, Joan was there to ensure he felt as treasured and prized as humanly possible.

By the end of the night, Joan’s camera roll was fraught with even more photos of a certain little boy enjoying an evening with his caregiver, with not a care in the world. Her new phone wallpaper was that very first picture she’d had the honor to capture on the day their lives changed for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading, lovies! Kudos & comments are especially appreciated. Stay safe & healthy out there!


	4. The Great Tortoise Heist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This chapter goes out to Datawolf39, who suggested this idea! I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. Since beginning this series, I'm now half-way through season four.

Sherlock Holmes has never been one to obsess over _things._ Despite his upbringing—or, his birth family essentially having more than enough money to provide him with whatever earthly possession his heart desired—he believed that materialism was a selfish concept taken up by those who couldn’t find stability anywhere else. It was nonsense to think that objects could be the centre of one’s happiness. Later in life he realised that it was only people who could truly fill that gap in their hearts, not silly knick-knacks. (Well, by “people” he really only meant Joan, and sometimes the Captain and Marcus.) Buy _me_ this, I _want_ that—Life should have meaning outside of thingamajigs and whatchamacallits! It was all chatter to the consulting detective.

And yet, he could feel that _stupid_ plush doll staring straight into his bloody _soul_ and he hated every rancid bit of it. 

The fact of the matter was, they didn’t walk through the doors of the F.A.O. Schwartz out of their own free will; some ignoramus decided it would be a good idea to bug every last toy in there with cameras to _watch_ the children that took them home. No one had gotten physically hurt, thankfully, and it took them less than a week to find the disgusting fellow. Joan, Sherlock, the Captain and Marcus decided to go back to the store to debrief them on what exactly went down, wrap up some last minute business, and inform the employees that it was all over. The manager of the Manhattan store personally wished to thank the team. She was perhaps the kindest woman any of them had ever met.

“Please, on behalf of myself, the staff, and every child you’ve saved from that sicko, we’d want nothing more than for you to pick out anything in the store you like, free of charge.” Marcus expressed his gratitude, yet passed on the offer; Gregson went to look for something for his grandchildren. Joan had her eyes on Sherlock, who could feel his face heating up and his hands getting cold and clammy—was it really that hot in there? 

Joan gave the woman a soft smile. “Thank you, we’re beyond honoured, Mrs. Carlyle. Aren’t we, Sherlock?” To which he gave Mrs. Carlyle a tiny, very awkward grin, likewise thanking her. The manager reciprocated, because of course she did. “We’ll take a look around, be right back.” 

As a subtle nod to his embarrassment, he locked his right arm around Joan’s left one, conveying to her he’d follow wherever she led. The place was _huge_ and there was so much _stuff,_ Sherlock thought his head would positively pop off from overstimulation. Three floors of nonsense parents believed would pacify their children—how could they expect to not rear ones obsessed with more, more, more?

On the second floor (where they’d spent a majority of their time during this case, other than the usual Brownstone), there was a section dedicated to infants and older babies alike, which Joan pointed out would be a great place to start, for obvious reasons. It’d been two weeks since they had their defining conversation regarding how far they were willing to go with his regression, what he was comfortable with and willing to try in the future, the like. She was very pleased with the progress he was making in terms of “letting go” and giving into his babyish tendencies free of humiliation, but there was one change that needed to be made: adult Sherlock was content with living minimally, but baby Sherlock barely had anything! He’d already gone through two packs of diapers, lost all of his pacifiers, broke a bottle (he appreciated the aesthetics of the glass bottles compared to the cheap plastic ones)... as their sessions became more realistic in nature, Joan figured it was time they obtained additional, reasonable items.

It was fraught with the tiniest clothes to ever lay eyes upon, dummies and soothers galore, mobiles to hang above cribs, the like... it was sickeningly adorable, if he had to admit it. Nearly made him nauseous. But among all the bobbles Joan and him had ogled at, the one that caught Sherlock’s eye was a simple toy, one that otherwise would’ve gone unnoticed. It was a little green tortoise with darling teardrops eyes. He could tell it was specifically a tortoise and not just a regular turtle because of—

“Clyde,” remarked Sherlock, underneath his breath. He picks it up delicately (as if it’d break if handled in any other manner) out amongst a sea of other stuffed sea creatures. Much to his surprise, it rattled! He rubbed its soft verdine fur beneath his thumbs, taking comfort in the texture. Joan knew exactly what he was thinking as he inspected the plaything; if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was interrogating the poor toy.

“It’d be rude not to take anything, Sherlock,” said Joan. “He’s real cuddly, isn’t he?”

Sherlock broke his stare-down with the plush to look at his caregiver. He wouldn’t dare slip into littlespace in public and ruin his reputation, God no... but it was growing increasingly difficult given all of the stimuli that made him want to regress.

“I-I suppose it would go against the etiquette of the matter if I _didn’t_ take him home,” he rationalised. 

Joan rubbed a hand on his back. “I agree. So, now that you’ve got one, I want you to pick something else out.”

His brow turns into itself in confusion. “Mrs. Carlyle dictated we could only take one article, if my memory serves me.”

“I know, but I’ve been meaning to get you some toys for your little time anyway. Have at it.”

He was silent for a moment. “I don’t need anything more, Watson, as I believe Clyde Jr. here will prove to be an amicable regression companion by himself.”

Clyde Jr.—he’d already named him! She’d disregarded his silly negligence and began to travel deeper into the inventory. In the back, she found mobiles, play mats, walkers. On the wall designated for newborns, though, she found a white plush blanket printed with bumblebees. “How appropriate,” she said aloud to herself. She took it in hand, and went to collect her partner, who had flipped through a copy of ‘Where the Wild Things Are.’ Snuggled against his chest was Clyde Jr. 

“Watson, this ‘Max’ character was sent to bed with no dinner and in turn became the coloniser to the beasts on the cover. Were he a real child, I have reason to believe he’d be deemed the youngest endangerment to human existence since—” his brain finally registered the blanket. “Who’s that for?”

Joan smiled. “The new baby.”

* * *

A week after their visit to F.A.O. Schwartz, Sherlock Holmes found himself regressed to approximately thirteen-months old, seated criss-cross-applesauce on his diapered bum in front of their multiple televisions, watching his favourite programme: “Baby Einstein.” He insisted that Joan put in on to keep his brain intellectually occupied whilst in such an impressionable state of mind. Joan was sitting at the table with him in full view, as she had some leftover paperwork to fill out from a case they closed months ago. She glanced over to him every so often, but could hear him babbling and gasping whenever one of the colourful puppets popped up on the screen. Taking a break from her pen, she gets up and walks over to him and lovingly caresses the top of his hair. Clyde Jr.’s right arm was nestled in his mouth, and Joan could begin to see that his forest-green fuzz was essentially covered in his slobber. 

Clyde Jr. was a wonderful addition to their sessions. Whenever Sherlock got fussy during a change, all she had to do was wiggle the stuffed animal in front of his line of sight and the boy was instantly appeased. He was likewise fond of the blanket, which he referred to simply as his “blankie.” Since they’d taken them home, it seemed they hadn’t left Sherlock’s side, even when he was big. Joan was just glad because it seemed the items helped him become more infantile in overall demeanor; she planned to introduce new toys to him in the future, obviously, but it appeared he already found his favourites.

“Oh no, Sherlock, that’s yucky. Didn’t I give you a pacifier? Where’d it go?” she questioned, and instinctively went to remove the toy from the little boy’s lips, only for him to take it out himself, hug it even tighter to his person, and look up at her with sad eyes. Joan shook her head, amused, and laughed at Sherlock’s protectiveness of the plush. With the fact in mind that Sherlock likely had to give up any comfort objects when he’d been sent off to boarding school, she saw it best to let him hold onto it a bit longer—but she’d have to wash the tortoise eventually. She could foresee this becoming an issue in the future. 

“Alright, it’s okay, honeybee, I’m not gonna take him,” the caregiver cooed. Little Sherlock lifted his arms to her, requesting to be held, to which Joan happily obliged. She kissed his cheek, and felt her heart fill with glee when he draped his legs around her waist and arms around her neck. 

While Sherlock was unquestionably bigger in stature than Joan, her arms had definitely bulked in muscle matter since he began regressing. Regardless, she took him over to the sofa and positioned him comfortably onto her lap. He was fiddling with his new toy and talking gibberish to her, about what she couldn’t quite point out just yet. At one point, he holds it out and rattles it, listening to the tiny jingling it made as he shook Clyde Jr. up and down, up and down.

Joan—having a complex understanding of Piaget’s stages of cognitive development—would make comments at his actions, to prompt more babbling, which the babe in her lap happily indulged her in. “Ba” and “gah” were a majority of the noises she picked up on, but they seemingly engaged in gibberish back-and-forth until it was his naptime. 

Even when regressed, Sherlock knew how to entertain himself. She figured she’d wash his toys when he aged up and didn’t rely so much on their comfort—he’d have to give them up eventually, right? For now, she’d let him do whatever he needed to do to escape into his littlespace, knowing no matter what that Joan would always be there to show him her deepest love and affection. 

* * *

The Brownstone _reeked._ Well, maybe not the entire home, but Joan could point out the sole reason _Sherlock_ at least was incredibly smelly. Two days later, he’s still regressed, and Joan wouldn’t lie—she was beyond scared shitless. She had to tell Marcus they wouldn’t be able to come into work that day because when she’d woken up, she’d found him sleeping on his tummy, dummy still lodged between his lips, and Junior nestled in his death-grip. He’d sneezed on it, spit-up on it, cried into it... and still, every single time she’d gone to take it away from him, whether he was lucid or not, he screamed at the top of his lungs like a banshee on steroids. 

Money was no issue; they didn’t really need to go into work, that wasn’t a problem for her. Her goal for today was to disinfect that damn tortoise, one way or another!

Joan has a plan: after a change, breakfast, and a bottle, it was playtime for the baby. She’d hoped when she put on some “Baby Einstein,” he’d get immersed in it (as he usually did), and that’d be her timeframe to knab the little turtle, throw it in the washing machine, and spend the next hour or so comforting a grown man with the mentality of an infant. 

Joan saw her window begin to open up: he was sitting on his blanket, eyes glued to the television yet still playing with some blocks she’d bought him the day prior, Clyde Jr. discarded off to the side. This was where her stealth training would come in handy, after all, she couldn’t just walk up to him and take it. He’d surely notice. Would he? 

_Here goes nothing,_ she thought, sending up a silent prayer that he legitimately wouldn’t see her, please, God, just let him _not_ be paying attention. 

Her steps were noiseless, calculated; in three strides she was standing behind him, Clyde Jr. in full reach of her foot (which she was ultimately going to use to snatch him away), when the floorboards beneath her creaked ever so slightly, making the baby turn his head. Sherlock gives her the sweetest smile he was capable of mustering. 

“Joe-y!” He exclaims, holding a wooden block with the letter “O” on it. “Joan” was likely what he was getting at, but as the muscles in his face were more lax in headspace, it came out as “Joey.” If she wasn’t trying to pull off the Greatest Tortoise Heist of the Twenty-First Century, she’d positively be in heaven. The toy was already wrapped around her toes, and Sherlock hadn’t quite figured out what she was doing, so she figured that if she could continue to distract him for a moment longer, she could lift it up and hide it behind her back. 

“Hi, honeybee!” Joan reciprocates the excitement, to keep him engaged. “Whatcha got there?” 

Sherlock proceeds to hold up the wooden block in question and giggle at her. “Learning the alphabet, huh? What a smart, handsome little guy you are, yes, you are!” 

At this point she’s nearly got the toy in her hands, ready to race as quietly as possible down to the basement, when she’d forgotten about the fact that it was also a _rattle._ Clyde Jr. jingled as she tried to swiftly lift him up, pricking Sherlock’s ears and conveying to him that, wait a minute, what’s my caregiver doing with my toy?

He whines, making those famous “grabby hands” for it, when Joan sighs and considers her options: simply give it back to him and avoid any commotion or do what needs to be done to help her little one stay safe and clean. 

“Where go?” The little boy asks. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart, but Joey needs to give Clyde Jr. a bath. He’s all icky, and I don’t want you to get icky, too.” She tried her best to explain it in simple terms, but if she was being honest, Joan didn’t think he fully understood. It pained her to do what she did next. 

She heads down to the basement, fully aware of the tantrum that was about to take place in her absence, and begins a new wash cycle. She rushes back upstairs to find her baby in the same upwards position he was seated in before, only this time his fists were balled up and rubbing at his tear-stricken eyes. 

It broke Joan’s heart into millions of little pieces to hear him cry in such a manner; when he was big, his tears were always so silent. Joan was glad he was the purest form of vocal in his headspace, telling her of his every need and want—this was a step in the right direction. A learning curve, for them both.

“Oh, honeybee, Joey’s so, so sorry,” Joan cooed, lifting him off the floor. She takes his blanket with her, too, and drapes it around his back as he continues to cry and cry and cry. She knew he’d eventually tucker himself out, but for now, cuddles were in order. After a lifetime of repressing his emotions, it’d be good for him to sob it out. Baby Sherlock mourning the cleanliness of his plushy reptile friend in turn would be helping adult Sherlock deal with some trauma. It was a win in her book, if not a sad one. 

Joan attempted to give him a pacifier, but he just ended up spitting it out. She eventually settled for humming to him and rocking him, keeping a sharp ear out for the finishing wash cycle. Now would probably be a good time to give him a bath, too, she thought. 

The longest earthly hour passed, and in that time Sherlock had gone through the stages of grief. He was bathed and changed and completely out of tears to cry, growing sad and silent in Clyde Jr.’s disappearance. To Sherlock’s baby brain, he believed that his toy had been taken away forever, or that he’d done something wrong to have it taken from him. Either way, he was tired from wringing his heart dry and wanted to go to sleep. 

It was his naptime, and thankfully the dryer had ceased it’s whirling by the time Joan had created a make-shift cot on her bed for him to rest on. His eyes had already begun to flicker shut when Joan runs back to the basement, removes the toy from the machine, and rushes upstairs again to her baby. 

“Sherlock~” she said in a sing-song tone. “Look who wanted to take a nap with you~”

The boy was far too tuckered out to do so much as open his eyes and see what his caregiver was talking about. Joan gently brushes the tortoise against his cheek, in hopes that it’s now incredibly soft texture and familiar jingle would jog something to his senses; Sherlock thought whatever was touching his face had felt far too much like...

“C’yde!” Sherlock declares, squishing him against his face. “T’ank ‘oo, Joey.” 

“You’re welcome, honeybee.” Joan smoothed out some hair away from his face. “Clyde Jr. could never leave his partner in crime.” 

As soon as Joan pulls the blanket up and tucks him in, she draws the curtains closed, and the boy is out like a light. 

_Note to self,_ Joan thinks. _Don’t_ ever _try something like that again._

* * *

When she arose the next morning, Sherlock had already gotten out of bed, meaning he’d come out of his regressed state. Joan would give him his space, knowing full well he’d eventually waltz into their room with breakfast for her. 

“Morning, Watson. I’ve procured a hearty meal for you before we head off to the station,” Sherlock greeted, dressed in his regular suit and blazer, placing the wooden tray of toast and scrambled eggs on her lap as she sits up. She picks up a fork and begins to eat, thanking him. “I take it yesterday was an eventful day?”

She swallows. “‘Eventful’ is an understatement. You were regressed for _two whole days,_ Sherlock. Do you remember anything since we got home from the toy store on Wednesday?” 

Sherlock blinks, his lip curling upward in thought. “No, I cannot say that I do.” He slides off his loafers and takes a seat next to her as she eats. It baffled him that he had absolutely zero recollection of anything that occured whilst his mind took refuge. “I _can_ say that I have at most minimal control over my actions when I am of younger mindframe, so please accept my apology for any distress I have caused you. Was I naughty?”

Joan puts down her fork and napkin to take hold of his hand tenderly. “No. No, you were the exact opposite. But, yesterday, you got really upset when I had to take Clyde Jr. away to wash him. You cried for hours, but I was there for you and made sure you got him back when I put you down for a nap.” Joan exhaled softly out of her nose. “It’s like you were scared that you’d never see it again.” 

Sherlock gave her a sad smile. “Father shipped Mycroft and I off to boarding school, this you know. I brought a beloved Teddy bear with me, one gifted to me by Mother at my birth. Thought it’d keep me company in that Hell-hole full of spoiled juvenile delinquents. I hid it beneath my bed one night, and during a mandatory room search, the Headmaster barged into my quarters and confiscated it—never saw it again,” Sherlock explained. “Since then, I’ve avoided taking pleasure in unnecessary gadgets. Better behaved without them, I suppose.”

The caregiver gave her little a downcast look. “Sherlock, that’s terrible, I’m so sorry. You know that won’t ever happen with me.”

He nods. “It’s quite alright, Watson. There is no doubt in my mind you are in any way a malicious caretaker. Not only does your brain secrete the optimal amount of oxytocin to biologically allow a woman of your age to be at her maternal prime, but I’m an incredibly subjective man and personally believe you are the best at everything you do. Disinfecting my toys and shushing my fat crocodile tears, included.”

Kissing his cheek, Joan Watson finishes her food and hoists herself out of bed. “If anyone deserves to be spoiled and showered in stuffed tortoises, it’s you, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! If anybody's got any prompts or suggestions, please let me know! Stay safe & healthy, darlings!


	5. Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This goes out to memelovescaps!
> 
> Huge trigger warnings for this chapter (included in tags, too). It’ll be discussing a young man who passed away from an overdose, as well as delve into Sherlock’s past abuse of drugs (also, needles will be spoken of!). If that isn’t your scene, I have some fluff on the way for the next chapters to make up for this angst-fest you will dive into. Please tread lightly, if you require help, please reach out! You’re loved! 
> 
> This is set at the beginning of season four, after his relapse. (Also this is my first time writing actual angst so please be kind I'm still learning!)

Sherlock Holmes would like the first person to call him “weak” to know that he could walk across hot coals and barely so much as bat an eyelash, and that they could shove their delusions into a certain orifice, where the sun will never shine. The man specifically _trained_ his body to withstand the most outlandish of circumstances for the very reason of his passion as a detective; while no mortal being is invincible, Sherlock felt as though it would take a great deal of injury (mental or physical) before he reached his breaking point. To state simply: his pain tolerance was not infinite, but indefinitely beyond the average statistic.  
  
When Joan had got off the phone with the precinct, she knew instantly it was going to be a rough day for her companion. Outsiders tended to walk on eggshells when they learned of Sherlock’s past addiction to heroin—anything and everything in New York could trigger intense urges to use again, and while it’d been a few weeks since his latest relapse, Joan wanted his first month clean to pass unwrinkled. They’d already made baby-steps towards progress, with him dutifully going to meetings and practising mindfulness whenever he felt inclined to use again, telling her whenever he needed to be little. So, with that in mind, what Gregson had told her had the potential to set Sherlock back... the last possible path she wanted them to travel down.

If anyone felt weak, Joan would confess it was herself. Despite the fact that she was no longer Sherlock’s sober companion, that would always be her duty. Of course, she felt accountable on all charges when he’d told her of his relapse. She loved Sherlock Holmes, through thick and thin, and all she’d wanted was to see him live a life free from substance abuse. For him to get clean and accept her help. She thought they’d reached a point where they could come to each other with any demons or doubts they were having. She thought they could confide in one another. 

But sometimes, darkness clouds the skies of judgment. The fight for sobriety becomes unbearable, and the human condition becomes far too much to deal with unmedicated. Joan could handle her own defeat—but the thought of losing her truest love and best friend, she could not. 

The governor of New York’s only son had been found dead of an overdose in his childhood home, his personal bathroom. Joan was informed that the scene remained untouched by authorities, meaning this fellow’s drug paraphernalia had been strewn about his body, just the way it was when he left the earth. In terms of specifics, his collection of needles and untouched opioids were on full display to anyone within range of his corpse, alongside the note he’d left for them, asking to look into the corruption of his father’s politics.

No, Sherlock Holmes was not weak. Joan knew for certain he was the strongest soul she’d ever come across. But would this be a sensitive case for him? Could he handle something that hit so close to home so soon?

Joan puts her phone in her pocket and begins to peel a tangerine just as Sherlock walks into their kitchen. He places both of his hands on the back of a chair before shifting his weight to one side of his body.

“You know I’m a hard fellow to offend,” he begins.

In spite of herself, she scoffs amusedly. “Sure. Only if you say so.”

Sherlock glares at her. “I find it incredibly insulting that Marcus has only been informing you, solely you, of what our days entail. I have multiple theories as to why his behaviour concerning his lack of communication with me has altered so drastically.” 

“Aww, well I’m sure we can set up a playdate next week.” she mocks lovingly, popping an orange slice into her mouth. “You jealous?”

He continues his sour look. “No... I’m just of the clouded opinion that I’m a good friend, and I do splendid work, so there is no justifiable reason for neither Gregson nor Bell to be keeping me in the dark!”

Joan stands and places a hand on his shoulder. Not a single soul at the station had any idea what she and Sherlock did behind closed doors, but what was obvious to them was that she would defend her partner to the ends of the earth—just as he would for her. Whether that protectiveness was out of romantic or platonic interest, their relationship was the subject of old-fashioned, playground gossip. Not that either of them cared, of course, but with Sherlock’s past in mind it was no wonder the details of this particular case were shielded from Sherlock’s line of sight. 

She needed to be strong for Sherlock. She had an idea of how he was going to process the case that lay ahead, but she had to be steadfast and dependable, just as she always was. She was his rock, now more than ever.

“Sherlock, it’s probably nothing,” she lied. Joan knew _exactly_ why they hadn't called him. As he heads for his coat, she tuts at him.“Breakfast first.”

“Contrary to popular belief, it is not the most important meal of the day, Watson. The fetishisation of food is likewise time-consuming, especially considering modern commercialist approaches that—”

It is then that Joan shoves some tangerine into his mouth, just to shut him up. She walks off, and he’s left to munch on the fruit and his thoughts.

* * *

Sherlock felt like he hadn’t moved an inch in half an hour. 

Bell told Joan it would be best to not bring Sherlock as the circumstances had been greatly underestimated by the 911 call. Just as they arrive on the scene, Gregson, Joan, and Marcus share a look that Sherlock isn’t included in. He’d pushed past them, and Joan’s heart was racing as she moved to get to his side—he knew exactly where to go. She excuses herself through mourning family members to climb their grand staircase in hopes of reaching her companion before he made his way to the suicide. But, it was too late. 

“Sherlock, just _wait_ —” 

The young man, Sean, lay face down in a pool of his own vomit. His mouth was agape and his cheeks were sunken, his pale skin grey in the unforgiving bathroom light. A trigger could disguise itself in plain sight, with something so simple yet so profound as a spoon prompting compulsions to relapse, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to comprehend the fact that the episode before him made his vision go blurry. 

Sherlock takes a shaky breath. “I, um... see why, now...” Everything becomes dark and incomprehensible for the detective until his knees buckle and eventually give out.

He’d never let his emotions get in the ways of a job well done, yet the situation at hand had flooded his senses with the parallel dread and loneliness that poor Sean must have been feeling, catapulting himself back into the true nadir of his life. A life where he only knew existential dread, day in, day out. A life where his only purpose was to numb his pain, hurting anyone and sabotaging everything to get what he needed. Most importantly, a life with addiction was a life without Joan.

Sherlock felt himself begin to slip. He told himself time and time again that his regression would never leave the confines of the Brownstone, as he was far too careful; yet, his breathing became laboured, his body numb with pain. She could see the tears well up in his empty gaze, flowing freely down his quivering cheeks. He was still staring at Sean’s corpse, thoughts running rampant. The governor’s wife had been the one to call the police and inform them of her son’s death, and was in another room being consoled by Gregson, who was trying to get some answers to routine questions. Bell was downstairs, talking to his siblings. Sherlock had been the first outsider to scale the impressive staircase and see before him the demise of Sean Hoffman. 

To begin, she had never seen her partner move so quickly to tears. Sherlock the man cloaked his every sentiment for fear of being taken advantage of in a vulnerable state. During his little time, however, Sherlock’s emotions could change at the drop of a hat. Little Sherlock was easy to please, being an agreeable child, but just like any other infant wouldn’t be afraid to weep whenever he had a dirty nappy, or was hungry, or needed a cuddle. Seeing Sean in the state he was must’ve set off his regression, and Joan had to act fast before anyone suspected anything. 

Joan’s hand cradles the back of Sherlock’s neck, guiding him to place his head on her shoulder. His sobbing grows louder, and Joan can hear Gregson call her name. As her partner found himself almost entirely little and completely dependent upon Joan for his every need, she grew entirely more anxious. How was she going to get them out of there without causing a scene?

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, baby,” she comforts. “Joanie’s gonna get you out of here, safe and sound.”

She lets him blow his nose in her expansive blouse (which was the very last of her worries), running her hands up and down his heaving back. He already seemed very young, meaning he was dropping _fast_ —screw whatever anyone thought, she had a little to take care of.

Joan recalled there being a second staircase in the Hoffman’s home: ruling out the grand marble one located at the forefront of the home, the wooden one towards the master bedroom led to their backyard and was easily their best bet if they wanted to remain low-key. There was a secluded area near the family’s private pond with a bench where she could hopefully calm Sherlock down enough to drive them home safely.

Directing him there, the volume of Sherlock’s cries soared above capacity. In a minute they found themselves sitting besides one another, Joan doing her best to comfort the shaken man in her embrace. She had him drape his legs over her lap; thankfully, the location of the bench was far enough from the house that they could mind their business and not disturb the crime scene. If she could take away any pain that lurked in his heart, she would do it without a shadow of a doubt. Right then, it seemed all Joan had the power to do was console her baby as he aired out his fresh emotional wounds. 

Every so often she would methodically rub his back or scratch his hair, place a kiss to his temple or cheek in hopes of grounding him back to his body. And just when it appeared the sobbing subsided, a fresh symphony of tears strung up again, and Joan was back at square one. She would ‘shush’ him lovingly as she swayed them to and fro. Twenty minutes later, she’d got a text notification from Gregson asking what the hell happened. He wasn’t a dumb man, of course he could piece together the obvious; but Joan had quite a lot to leave out.

 _“It was too much for him to handle,”_ she typed back with her one free hand. Sherlock begins to suck on his fore and middle finger, ceasing his tears, yet whimpering like a sad puppy just enough to secure her attention. If it was any other day, she’d insist on a pacifier, but neither one of them ever carried little gear on their person when they were out and about—perhaps it was time they both reconsidered. “ _We’re out back. Buy us some time?”_

Joan put her phone back into her coat pocket and swiped away a few stray tears from the baby’s face. He nuzzles his fluffy hair closer into her breast, only for her to plant yet another peck onto the top of his head. Sherlock hadn’t said anything comprehensible in short of a few hours, but if anything made sense to Joan it was his dire need of some peace and quiet. Out of the blue, a tiny voice utters one simple word. 

“Mad?” he questions in a lulled tone. 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she strokes the side of his face with the back of her soft fingers. “Why would I be?”

He pulls his fingers out of his mouth. “I was bad before, with Oscar, a-and w-when I-I’m bad I ma-ake Joanie sad…”

Joan lets a few of her own tears fall onto her lap. “No, Sherlock, you’re such a good boy.” After all, baby Sherlock must’ve had no idea what it was he was looking at earlier; just as confused and innocent and pure as a fresh winter’s snowfall, unsure of the ground beneath his own feet. He surely must’ve had flashes of memories from when he was using, constituting his behaviour as ‘bad,’ and coming clean to his caregiver. Joan Watson’s soul shattered. “You’re my good boy. Joanie’s upset because she doesn’t like it when her honeybee is hurting. When you’re sad, I am, too.”

“No, Joanie!” Sherlock exclaims. “I better! Not sad anymo’e...”

Joan squeezes him tighter. “That’s good, honeybee, I’m so glad,” she whispered. She really should’ve waited til he aged up to talk about such serious matters, yet this could _not_ wait. “But, what you saw upstairs wasn’t good. That person in the bathtub had a lot of bad feelings that he wasn’t talking about before he... went away. Promise me if you’re hurting or if you feel like hurting yourself you won’t keep it from me, okay baby?”

Joan can hear his breath hitch. “I p’omise.” 

She smoothes away a tuft of hair from his forehead. The sun shines quietly down upon the little pond, and a family of ducks swims by their line of sight. For a moment, everything is okay. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Home, Joanie?” Sherlock mumbles sadly into her long hair.

She smiles a tad. “Yeah, I think it’s time we head home, don’t you?” She feels a nod. “I’ll make you a nice warm baba, and we can cuddle in bed. Doesn’t that sound nice?” The little in her lap silently agreed. 

They helped each other stand, and Sherlock took a minute to compose himself. Marcus and Gregson watch the consulting detectives out in the field embrace one last time before they lock arms and leave the scene of Sean Hoffman’s death, Sherlock climbing into the back of a taxi followed by Joan. While they had their theories as to what went down amongst them, they figured it was best not to speculate. Pretend they didn’t see the most emotionally-constipated man either of them knew cry his eyes out for two hours with his “business partner.” Oh, well. They’d see them on Monday, anyway.

Later on, when Sherlock could feel the cloudiness of his regression begin to clear up as they were driven further away from the scene, he allowed for some adult thought to fester in place of his prior childish innocence. “That, um, could have easily been myself in place of the Hoffman boy t-today,” he muses.

Joan shakes her head. “Sherlock—”

“No, no—please, let me finish.” She does. “The thought of you finding me with a needle lodged in my vein, face down in a pool of my own vomit, knowing we’d never see each other again makes me despise myself remarkably. I’m weak, Joan, and I want to get better,” he confesses. He’s staring out the window, watching the newly born spring pass him by. “Nowadays I find my only redeemable qualities I have a semblance of confidence in are because you’ve worked to instill them in me. You make me human, Joan Watson.” 

Joan squeezes his hand in her own. “You are human, Sherlock. You’re beyond intelligent, and you care so much about your work, and you astonish me with your spirit and determination every moment we share together. You’re going to survive this not just because you’re human, but because you’re an extraordinary one.” As his glassy eyes peer into her soul, she can deduce he’ll be fully regressed again by the time they make it back to the Brownstone. “I’m not saying recovery is going to be easy—you know by now that it isn’t. I’m saying that you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, and that you’ll never have to go through it alone.”

And when the flood gates opened up again, Joan was more than happy to slide over a seat and let him bury his nose in her shoulder once more. (A little mucus never hurt anyone, after all.)

It was going to be a hellish next few weeks for them both as he continued to recuperate, no doubt, but she knew Sherlock Holmes better than anyone else and could confidently say that addiction would be no match for him, in the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry if this was awkward or bad haha, still trying to understand my own writing style! Hope you enjoyed (:


	6. In Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his recent PCS diagnosis, Sherlock struggles to get out of the "In Between," where he can't fully regress but can't exactly stay big. Joan has an idea.

As Joan adjusts the paper bag full of fresh produce on her hip to properly lock the front door, she notes the considerable state of silence— _never_ a good thing to consider when living with Sherlock Holmes. She shuddered in anticipation. 

“Sherlock?” she calls out. “You home?”

“Kitchen!” Joan sighs in relief and makes her way to his destination. Walking through the side-entrance, she is met with her partner seated at their table with a fifty-pack of Crayola crayons scattered out around him, his back hunched over what she assumes could only be a colouring book.

She tilts her head to better make sense of what he’s doing. “Is that a picture of... a unicorn?”

“Indeed. I read that colouring would supposedly aid in alleviating the stressors of my PCS. Assisting my recovering brain in making sense of whatever complex visual information presents itself on the page, things of that nature. If anything, it’s a chore to work on keeping the colours in the confines of the outline,” he informs her. “Her name is ‘Fluttershy.’ She is a recurring character in the ever-popular My Little Pony franchise, beloved by little girls and the middle-aged men who lurk on the World Wide Web, alike.” 

Joan puts the bag on the surface near the stovetop, taking out its contents. “Are you little right now?”

“Am I required to be if I wish to merely indulge in the childish activities recommended not only by you, but by my doctor, when I am not in the headspace?” Sherlock retorts. 

“No, of course not,” she laughs a little. “But is this what you’ve been doing all day long?”

Sherlock stops his incessant scribbling to put down the pink crayon he was holding, choosing a sunshine-yellow one in its place. He resumes. “Finding new ways to battle my boredom has ironically _cured_ my insufferable ennui. For example…” Sherlock ceases once again and gets up from his seat to run around recounting the events of the last eight hours. “Today, I have redecorated Clyde’s terrarium, baked twelve dozen batches of oatmeal-raisin cookies, knitted a pair of socks, and managed a nineteen-minute nap... I also found my _purple_ dummy, from when I lost it last month, look!” Sherlock holds it up to her in his excitement.

“Huh,” she exclaims. “Where was it, exactly?”

“In my sensory deprivation tank,” Sherlock nods at the object in hand. “Absolutely no idea how it got there.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve been _very_ productive.”

He hums in agreement and shuffles back over to his spot at the table to finish his activity. In doing so, Joan notes an unmistakable crinkle coming only from his nether regions. _Was he...?_ Joan thought to herself. _No, he couldn’t possibly... He just said he wasn’t feeling little._ Just in case, she takes one of his bottles of milk out of the refrigerator and prepares to heat it up. Joan took pride in always looking out for events that lay ahead.

He sits down again as Joan finishes putting away the groceries. “Did you have an eventful day?” He asks, bouncing a smidge in his seat. 

“Aside from locating that firefighter’s big toe from last week and officially closing his brother’s case, it was mostly just, you know, run-of-the-mill consulting detective work.” She says with a smile, as though ‘run-of-the-mill consulting detective work’ was commonplace on it’s own. 

“That is quite good,” he comments softly. “I-I missed you...”

Joan’s heart melts like butter in her chest. “Oh, honeybee, I missed you too,” she coos, opening her arms to him. 

Joan’s found that, ever since his PCS diagnosis, Sherlock has taken far more comfort in physical affection than he ever did before. The man who—at one time or another—would rather endure “enhanced interrogation" than be found having a cuddle was, well, a cuddler! When he would drift in and out of lucidity as a result of fatigue, or when his memory would fail him, it seemed the only place he could find some semblance of security was with Joan. Neither of them liked being away from the other for so long; in her loving embrace, Sherlock could reconcile his separation anxiety alongside the internal pain he was feeling and recover to the beat of his own drum.

He wraps his arms around her back and lays his head on her shoulder. Judging by how tightly he’s holding onto her, Joan could tell today wasn’t exactly as ‘productive’ a day for Sherlock as he made out to be. They simply stand there for a few minutes, Joan running a hand along his spine, kissing the cheek that wasn’t laid against her clavicle. 

“Why don’t we settle in for the night, hm?” Joan suggests. When she feels another nod against her skin, she takes up his hand in hers and leads him to her bedroom. Well, more like _their_ bedroom now, as Sherlock has spent just about every night since his diagnosis with her there. (Not that she minded, of course.) 

He sits down on the mattress and begins to take off his socks and shoes. She instructs him to lift up his arms, which he does. Joan opens one of the drawers in her dresser, designated for his garments. When he’d ‘permanently’ moved to her room, she took the liberty of bringing up some of his clothes and making some vacancies in her dresser so she didn’t have to constantly go between upstairs and downstairs. 

“Okay, mister: do you want bees or trains tonight?” Joan asks, holding up the two different oversized sleepers for him to choose between. In a split second, he points to the one with the trains printed on it. “Good choice.”

It isn’t until he finally takes off his trousers that Joan’s prior suspicions are confirmed. There he sat, wearing a new brand of diapers he’d bought that indicated the usage by the image printed on the front changing colour. This particular one had stars that appeared at any detection of urine or excrement. 

As usual, he’s quick to explain himself. “Now, it’s as I said before, I am _not_ currently regressed. I was merely exploring my own bodily control of my bladder and bowels, to see how long I could handle not relieving myself.”

“Sherlock. That’s ridiculous,” Joan scolds. “How long have you been sitting in that diaper?”

“Going on seven hours, twenty-two minutes, fifteen seconds.”

“I left the house at ten! It’ll be a miracle if you don’t get a rash. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Joan always got the truth from him, especially with her signature glare. After all, Sherlock couldn’t stand to disappoint his caregiver.

“I... I _wanted_ to be little today. I tried regressing on my own, earlier this afternoon, but of all the materials I brought forth that triggered my headspace in the past, nothing appeared to be doing the trick. It’s as though my mind is trapped in some dreadful purgatory where I am not fully adult, yet cannot peacefully regress. The phrase ‘stuck between a rock and a hard place’ stands out as appropriate to me as I am—quite literally—in between frames of mind for an unforeseeable period of time.”

Joan frowns. She honestly had no idea from what angle to approach this issue from; of all the research material she’d read and reread about regression, she was yet to come across any article that wrote of a state paralleled to his current attitude. She couldn’t bear to think of how much more stress this put his poor brain under, alongside his coping with the aftermath of an intense concussion. Joan would get to the bottom of it—she always did. 

She brainstormed silently as she changed him into a thicker nighttime nappy and zipped him into his pajamas. She turned down the covers to the bed and let him climb in first while she got herself out of her work clothes. In the corner of her eye, Joan can see one of Sherlock’s newest blankets folded innocently in the corner of the room; Ms. Hudson, being the kind soul she was, had gifted it to him when she’d learned of the Brit’s newest coping mechanism. The woman cleaned their house top to bottom every week and the fact that both of them didn’t expect her to stumble upon Sherlock’s toys and other such paraphernalia was absurd, and they knew it. When they’d found the fluffy, oversized white serape placed innocently on their couch with a kind letter attached to it, they instantly called to thank her; Ms. Hudson’s acceptance meant the world to him. Joan figured it was time to put the gift to good usage. 

Sherlock was worried by her silence. “Joanie?” 

If Joan Watson had been a cartoon character, a lightbulb surely would’ve lit above her cranium as her face is painted in a victorious grin. “I think I know how to fix this,” she declares, and in one swift motion, flattens the entire blanket onto her Queen-sized bed. “C’mon, lay down right at the centre.” 

Reluctantly (though not really), he complies. “I’m not sure whether you frighten me or not.” 

“Oh, please, I do not ‘frighten’ you.”

With ease, she pushed one corner of the blanket underneath his right arm snuggly, followed by securing his legs as she lifted the bottom portion of the coverlet upward, and finally tucking the last corner of excess blanket under the other side of his person. Of course he had known exactly what she was going to do when he saw her spread out the blanket on top of her mattress, but as soon as he realised she had essentially cocooned him up, his internal panic alarm went blaring.

“I look absurd.”

Joan clapped her hands together in amusement. “You look _adorable._ Like a little baby-burrito~”

“Yes, I do believe that is the end result in _swaddling,_ Watson!” Sherlock had never been so moved to feelings of contempt in all his days—well, if he was being honest, his range of motion wasn’t as broad as before, so he obviously wasn’t _physically_ moved, but that's besides the point! He wriggled, attempting to flail his limbs in all directions, yet was in no manner successful. If he weren’t in such a foul mood, he would have complimented her on her tight handiwork. Joan had many talents Sherlock had yet to discover. 

“Swaddling is supposed to mimic the sensation of being back in the womb, which is why babies find it so soothing,” Joan informed. “You’re telling me you don’t feel any different than before? Decreased heart rate, nothing?”

“I quite enjoy being freed from Mother’s bosom, thank you very much,” he pouted. “My sentiments at present are solely pessimistic and painfully defeatist.”

“I think you’re just a little cranky tonight,” Joan deduced, positioning herself next to the scowling bundle of detective. “Look, I’m sorry you had a tough day, but the whole point of your regression is for you to relax, which you’re doing the polar opposite of. Don’t you remember what we’ve been talking about?”

Sherlock thought for a split second. “That I’m not to continue to use your nice tupperware to grow my experimental Spanish moss?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sherlock...You trust me, don’t you?”

He shifts his head more toward her gaze. “Don’t be daft,” he tuts.

“In that case,” she takes a shaky breath and kisses the top of his nose. “Let go, and let me handle everything that follows. Be as little as you want to, as you _need_ to.” 

Joan can hear him whine the slightest bit, but she knows in her heart he’s beyond convinced. She managed to grab the bottle of lukewarm milk she’d put on her nightstand before climbing in. Propping herself up against the headboard, she’s somehow able to situate the bundle onto her lap. One arm supports his back and neck while the other rests near his chin, gently caressing his cheek with the pad of her thumb periodically.

Sherlock turns his head closer into her embrace, yawning loudly. Taking the bottle off the bedside cabinet, she nudges it between his willing lips. He begins to suckle fervently on the sweet liquid, as if she was going to take it away if he didn’t finish it right away. 

“Not so fast, baby,” she whispers. 

Slowly but surely, Sherlock drinks at a steady rhythm. When some would dribble down his chin, she was there to clean it away. Sherlock feels... _small_. Not only to an obvious emotional extent, but on a physical one as well. Curling into her touch, he let his muscles loosen; all inclinations of rigidity and restlessness faded away as Joan hummed a long forgotten lullaby. Listening to the symphony of her metrical heartbeat merge with the vibrations emitting from her sternum made him forget the troubles of his life. Troubles that would replace the oxygen in his lungs and otherwise drown him if Joan wasn’t there. No matter how well he may have played it off, he was tired of being consumed by the throes of his existence, caught in between satisfied and aggrieved wherever he went—in a nature, one could say Sherlock was grateful for his PCS diagnosis.

When he ultimately finishes the bottle, Joan sets it aside and sets to work burping him. Firmly yet tenderly pat, pat, patting his back until he eructates. Thankfully he didn’t spit-up this time, as Joan didn’t have anything to clean him with if he did, but no matter. 

She shuts off the lamp and spends the lull before he drifts off to sleep rocking him back and forth. He barely ever got a proper night's sleep when they worked a case, so the nights he was able to regress fully were hallowed in her eyes. She knew more than anyone that a finicky Sherlock was no fun to be around. 

As he dozes off, Joan plants a kiss to his balding head and properly lays him flat on his back. He fussed as he felt her put him down, wanting only to be held and comforted in his newly discovered headspace. 

“Shh, it’s alright,” Joan assuaged the boy, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Before he can so much as produce tears, Joan is laying down next to him, an arm around his blanketed tummy. Together at last, in the darkness of their sanctum sanctorum, they meander the paradisiacal waters of dreamland until the later hours of the next morning.

To Joan's astonishment, the man who kept entertained by trying to free himself from straight jackets unexpectedly expressed that he slept better in the restrictions of the swaddle. She had cracked the dreaded In Between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, and suggestions are appreciated. Stay safe & healthy (:


	7. Thanks, Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives an... interesting gift from Everyone and feels inspired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings & salutations—these chapters are slowly becoming me trying to make up the most outlandish cases Sherlock & Joan have solved. Elementary writers/CBS I would love an interview. Also, this is my awful attempt at comedy writing... forgive me in advance. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. musical theatre friends, I have a lil’ easter egg for you! (:

“That...is...” Joan breathes, “a... giant high chair.”

“Astute observation, Watson. Although, I’m discouraged in saying your detection skills are back at square one.” Sherlock had set up his laptop on the kitchen table so that the entire chair was in full view of the desktop camera.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. The fact that she lived in a day and age where such products were manufactured and later purchased baffled her, though not in any cynical bearing.

“You know by now that as thanks to the hacker-collective Everyone for their immense worldly knowledge and input in our cases, they ask not for financial payment in return, but instead to delight in my own subjective embarrassment. They have gifted me this high chair” to which he motions at his newest throne, “for my next theatrical performance and personal mortification. In accordance with the day you removed all the hair from my head, they requested that you assist me with this, as well.”

She blinks. “Wait a minute, you mean to tell me they know about...” Joan eyes him, attempting to ask whether or not Sherlock’s internet buddies had actual understanding of his regression. 

“Oh, yes. They do,” he replied nonchalantly. “But, they have already expressed to me that they do not plan on using this information against us in any malicious manner, nor do they intend to reep sexual pleasure from it—and, besides, I’ve encrypted the LiveStream, so if anyone does indeed attempt to stab us in the back,” Sherlock stares-down the camera for a moment to further reiterate his point, “it’ll shut down the recording instantly.”

“Alright. So I’m guessing you’ve got to do the obvious?”

“Yep,” he confirms. “Everyone, excuse me whilst I change into more appropriate attire. Care to abet?” Holmes mutes their chatter before offering Watson his arm, which she ultimately takes as they walk out of the kitchen into the common room.

“I wish you would set personal boundaries with these goons,” Joan exhales. “I get it, they help us out tremendously, but giving them this kind of insight into your life could be... I don’t know, dangerous?” 

“That’s nonsensical,” he states, beginning to strip his body of any adult clothing. “Dangerous activities for these ‘geeks’ ranges from venturing out of their mother’s basements to retrieve another canister of Pringles, to hacking George Lucas’ personal Google Drive in search of the most recent draft of _Star Wars_. Otherwise, the concept of peril couldn’t think to grace Everyone’s communal vocabulary.”

“You aren’t even regressed, Sherlock. They’ll be able to tell when you, of all people, are giving a shoddy presentation.”

“While that much is true, all that seems to interest them is making an arse of me. As they are convinced I am self-conscious of my headspace and everything it encompasses, _I’m_ confident in _our_ relationship, which has been built upon the sturdy foundation of our own mutual trust and is the only facet of this situation that is of concern to me. What they see tonight will be a mere fabrication of what _we_ do in privacy. And, besides,” Sherlock takes hold of her hands, glancing at the floor. “I was going to ask if I could be little tonight, anyway. Now we just have extra time on our hands.”

“Aw,” Joan cooes, tilting her head. “My little boy’s so grown up~”

“Those mosquitoes would’ve drank Marianna Wheelan dry in that broom closet if they weren’t the ones to successfully infiltrate the Brooklyn Zoo’s security archives and underlying databases. What Everyone asks for, Everyone shall receive.” 

“Fair enough,” she comments. “So, what’ll you be wearing?”

“Nappy. Bib.” He nods, pursing his lips. “On the stovetop you’ll find I’ve prepared lunch for us: one steaming vat of _capellini_ pasta with Americanised marinara sauce to accompany it.”

“Planning on making a mess, I presume,” she smirks.

“Their requests were simple enough,” he informs her, pulling out one of his many trunks full of infantile articles that he hid in plain sight around the Brownstone; this one was disguised near the bookcase. Sherlock takes out the specific items he requires, holding them up to Joan, indicating he wanted her to do the unspeakable.

Joan lovingly rolls her eyes. “All you had to do was ask,” and she sets to work putting one on him. Once he’s satisfactorily diapered, she helps him stand and velcros the garment he handed her around his neck. She knew for a fact she hadn’t bought him this particular bib, as it had tiny tessellations of beakers and other laboratory equipment on it.

“Now then. Off to battle,” he monologues whilst saluting her, waddling back over to the kitchen. Sherlock unmutes his computer, adjusts the camera, and sits down in the high chair, closing himself in by pushing down the food-tray. “Watson, if you please.”

But, Joan’s already ahead of him—she carries over two bowls of spaghetti with two forks to the table, placing her food on the table and his on the tray. When she sits down, she begins to twirl some around the fork to feed him, holding the utensil up to his mouth, but all he does is smile warmly at his partner.

“No, thank you, I won’t be needing that.” Joan’s brow furrows in confusion... Why Sherlock always insisted upon melodrama, Joan would never know. In the flicker of an instant, he decides to take one singular, giant fistfull of the noodles and begins to eat. “Oh, don’t let me stop you, Joanie, act as though the device is not present.”

Joan can hear Everyone’s laughter blazing through the computer as Sherlock continues to smear pasta all over his face. Eventually, she joined in on the entertainment she had a front-row seat to while eating her own food (which was quite delicious); it was incredibly endearing to see him full-on coat his mouth with tomato sauce as he ate. She knew Sherlock was nowhere near his headspace, but what was fascinating to her was watching how infinitely more infantile his idiosyncrasies grew as he progressed. Twenty minutes into this endeavour, his hands were coated in the stuff and he’d even managed to get some in his hair!

“Alright mister, I think you’ve had enough pasta for one day,” Joan giggles, putting her bowl in the sink. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

A chorus of cooes resonates from the computer’s speakers as Joan lifts the bib in her hands and wipes up what she could off of his face. Sherlock attempts to unclip the tray from the rest of the chair in order to set himself free, but finds that it was assembled in such a manner that the sitter themself couldn’t get access to the mechanism that allowed individuality. He figured that was why Everyone chose _this_ particular high chair over any of the others on the market. Once she scrubs what’s left of the sauce from his hands and face, Joan helps him down.

“Folks, as per usual, it’s been an honour. ‘Til next time,” he wiggles his fingers in the direction of the computer and quickly and efficiently shuts it down. 

Joan crosses her arms. “I thought you were going to actually _eat_ the pasta, not wear it.”

“I suppose that is just one charm of this structure of degradation,” Sherlock states, surrendering his dish.

Joan places a hand on the small of his back and kisses his (now) spotless cheek. “Yes, it was truly delightful to watch you douse yourself in noodles in front of a bunch of nerds for a half-an-hour. We’ll have to try it some other time, away from prying eyes.”

The man-child smiles. “Luckily for us, we can keep the chair!”

* * *

“ _Sherlock_!” Joan screams from their bedroom. 

The man in question barges through the door not a minute later.

“Tell me you haven’t done Everyone any more favours since last week,” she pleaded.

Sherlock inches closer to her. “No, I will admit this was my own solo purchase, although I was somewhat motivated by their actions.”

“You don’t want to co-sleep anymore?” There was a trace of sadness in her voice that Sherlock couldn’t bear.

“It’s not for _me_ , Watson, it’s for the child who happens to reside in my brain from time to time.”

“As much as I know you’d rather not own up to it, you _are_ the same person.”

The crib was laid innocently up against Joan’s side of the bed. Joan studied the cot: it was a charming piece of furniture made of white mahogany wood, clearly handcrafted by someone who specialised in the art of making much larger versions of originally small amenities. It was more than fit to sleep in, as he’d already managed to put a twin-sized mattress and some extra blankets inside. When Joan felt herself begin to question Sherlock how the crib even got up there in the first place, she stopped herself—it was easier to pick your verbal battles with Sherlock Holmes. 

“So, are you just going to stare at it or do you want to test it out?”

The detective shoots her a drowsy _coup d'oeil_ before rubbing his eyes _._ “I am nowhere near any quota of debilitation. I only bought the blasted cradle for me to use when I am _little._ ”

Joan walks over to his bassinet and runs her hands along it’s snowy finish. Looking over its bars, peering inside, she couldn’t seem to get a picture of baby Sherlock sleeping peacefully on his back, suckling on his pacifier, out of her mind; she was eager to find out how her boy would take to sleeping in the crib and not with her, like he usually did. While they both loved their cuddle time, Joan would admit it’d be nice to not get violently kicked in the gut every night they shared a bed. 

Out of curiosity, Joan unhooks one side of bars and pushes them down before glancing back to Sherlock. His arms were crossed, and it appeared as though he was incredibly adamant in his decision to go nowhere near the cot until he absolutely had to.

“Please?” Joan makes prayer-hands beneath her chin. “For Joanie?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes, this time done out of defeat. He slides off his overcoat and drapes it over the doorknob before climbing into the crib at his own speed. The sole reason for him doing so was simply to get a smile or two out of Joan (Sherlock was a firm believer in her smiles radiating enough power to conquer the collective energy crisis). As he looked up at her to find that gleaming grin beaming down upon him, he couldn’t help but reciprocate. 

“You are enjoying yourself, I take it?” Sherlock asks, his hands folded over his stomach as he lounges in his comfortable new bed.

She blushes. “Hm, how could you tell?” But, oh no, Joan was merely getting started. A moment later, she covered her face with both of her hands. “Uh oh, honeybee! Where’d Joanie go?”

If someone were to ask Sherlock how he was feeling, he would freely state he was dreading every second of his existence. His _honest_ answer would be that his heart had done one-too-many somersaults in his chest cavity. “Watson, I regret to inform you that I have an unperturbed grasp on object permanence for the time being.”

“Just play along, will you?” She laughs, pulling her hands away from her face to meet his gaze. “It’s more fun that way!” Once she places her hands back in their original positions, she patiently awaits any noises of interest from the baby. Joan can sense him reaching up for her hands to pull them away himself, but she manages to sneak in a “peek-a-boo!” before he gets the chance.

One of his favourite childhood authors, J. M. Barrie, once wrote that: “when a new baby laughs for the first time, a new fairy is born..." Surely if Barrie was correct, the little Holmes boy that laid in his crib laughing up a storm, playing one of the oldest games known to mankind with his caregiver had just welcomed a newborn fairy into the world. Joan and Sherlock continued on bursting at the seams until their sides hurt, and until Sherlock had found himself in an especially young headspace. It took a little work, but Joanie knew just what her little man needed even if he was too stubborn to admit it.

Joan sang and rocked him to sleep, and as he was dozing off was when she finally laid him down. Not only did he barely make a fuss, but Sherlock slept like an absolute angel the entire night long.

She was likewise pleased to find that _she_ was the one who got the honour of waking _him_ up, and not the other way around. Of course, she knew better than to turn the tables on him anymore than he expected of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you'd have to say. If not, thank you nonetheless! Stay safe & healthy out there.


	8. Anytime (I Am There)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after the death of Morland; Sherlock has a terrible nightmare that causes him to regress. Thank God for Joan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovies! I wanted to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend, Meme (@memelovescaps). You mean the world to me! 
> 
> P.S. This chapter is kind of a downer, I advise you have tissues handy!

On the eve of his death, Morland Holmes haunted his youngest son in a well-overdue nightmare. This manifestation was glacial, yet Sherlock could make out the fact that he was dripping in his blood, the blood spilled at the hands of Odin Reichenbach. The ghost placed both wrinkled hands on his son’s shoulders, letting his hollow gaze burrow deep beyond his soul. 

_"You carry the Holmes’ multitude of burdens now, Sherlock,"_ his father says. 

_“I always knew he’d be the one to outlive us all,”_ Mycroft mocks. _“Although, I do believe he’s just one hit away from joining us in limbo, Father.”_

The two phantoms jeer and taunt him for what seems to be eons. Sherlock didn’t stir in his slumber as he was used to dealing with—and disregarding—their ill-bred comments, having mastered such an art early in life. The funny thing was, before May’s passing, they were quite a happy family. The eight years they shared were bliss, daresay, and her death broke them all. 

Sherlock could care less what either man thought of him. His mother was the only blood relative who ever mattered to him, in the end. It was tragic they were unable to spend more time together, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his miserable existence boo-hooing over something he had no control over. 

That was, until a new voice rang out in the back of his head. This one was softer despite the present tinge of bitterness, yet Sherlock knew instantly who it was. It was a voice he once associated with the first dignified rays of sun in the early morning, a welcoming embrace… he’d come to learn the woman behind that voice was no more. _“It makes perfect sense,”_ the voice explained as it echoed throughout the walls of his mind, making the hairs on his arms stand up. _“Only the_ good _die young, Morland. Mummy’s little addict won’t ever need to worry about_ that _, now will she?”_

Morland tuts. _“How disappointing. He was quite so the worst commodity to come out of our marriage, if I say so myself, darling May.”_

Sherlock was no fool—he knew it was all fake. A pitiful figment of his self-image, a mere reflection of his subconscious that proved the obvious facts he was much too aware of but unable to label properly. Before Joan came along, Sherlock would have to manage sleepless nights on his own. Aside from turning to heroin to numb the pain after “losing” Irene, it was likewise helpful in making him sleep through any potential night terrors he might’ve had if unmedicated. When he’d started rehab, plagued each evening with visions of _her_ , or of the euphoria he craved so intensely, Sherlock refused any offered assistance and retreated, alienating himself to further self-sabotage his recovery. 

The loneliness never bothered him. It was the silence, the sheer _boredom_ , that consumed his brain and authorised the torment of nightly incubi. It’s Joan who builds his life from the ground up, picking up the pieces he’d neglected for far too long; to say the least, his dear Watson was the dream that chased away subsequent tribulations—and Sherlock never wanted to wake up.

Even now, the detective wakes in a cold-sweat, gasping and reaching for his next breath with all he could muster. She heard him whining and whimpering quietly as his discomfort grew to be intolerable. It doesn’t take long for Joan to become cognisant of what was occurring. When she came home from her run, he was passed out peacefully on the sofa, undisturbed, snoring softly; she took a shower, grabbed some case files, made herself a cup of tea, and patiently waited for him to get up. Now, Joan knew she had to act fast before this got a lot worse. 

She put down her mug and made her way over to the sofa, untangling his body from the heavy blanket before crouching down next to him. “Sherlock?” she tries, but to no avail. A simple nudge was all it took to jolt him from the throes of his nightmare. He scans the room frantic, as if searching for the figures who previously preoccupied his thoughts. When she finally gets a hold of his attention, his eyes begin to disembogue with hot tears rolling down his cheeks. 

“You're alright, Sherlock, it’s over now.” Joan helps him sit up slowly before brushing her hands over his own in a soothing manner. 

Before he can finish a complete thought, he feels himself slipping further and further into his headspace. A majority of the time, Sherlock could willingly come in and out of his ‘little mindset’ as he pleased; when he was convinced they were in a secure environment, it was as if he could flip an internal switch and easily step into a younger attitude. When the time came for him to age up, he could just as effortlessly return to his adult self. 

As their sessions became more frequent, he had mastered the skill down to a science. There’d only been one separate occasion where Sherlock had regressed involuntarily, and while it was only for a few hours, Joan was besides herself. As a surgeon, she had no issues with remaining calm in severe conditions, but it was only when the situations became personal in nature that she was uncommonly hesitant. 

“I-I’m sorry, I-I—” 

Joan shakes her head, holding onto him tighter than ever before. “No, it’s okay, sweetheart, what happene—?”

But it’s too late. As soon as he catches his breath, he buries his face in her bosom and begins to wail at the top of his lungs. Joan is surprised at the abruptness of his movements, and is slightly taken aback, but soothes him nonetheless. The last time Sherlock let himself experience such intense emotions was when he came to learn of Irene-slash-Jamie being alive. Or, after Alistair died. Or the time when—well, to make a long story short, Sherlock has come quite a long way in identifying his emotions and allowing himself to actually feel them from before his addiction to the present day. Although, Joan had never seen him like this: pliant and scarily impressionable, almost limp. 

It wasn’t until she adjusted his head on her chest that she noticed a darkened patch of fabric begin to spread around his groin. Joan figured now would be as good a time as any for a bath, so she does her best to comfortably lift him in her arms and carry him to the bathroom—she’d deal with the couch later. She undressed him as efficiently as possible and washed the urine from his skin in record time. It was a bit of a challenge to wipe his face clean or even wash his hair while the poor dear was sobbing away (and if Joan was being perfectly honest, a migraine was beginning to form just behind her eyes), but she succeeded nonetheless. 

When she tried to lay him down to put a diaper on him, baby Sherlock decided he would have none of that. He usually wriggled around amidst a change, but Joan could tell this was a couple rungs down from a full-blown tantrum. Once she closes the tabs on the nappy, she goes to pick out a tee-shirt for him. He holds out his hands to her with open palms, indicating how desperately he wants to be held. “I know, sweetheart, you had a scary dream, huh?” Joan succors, sliding the baby-blue striped garment over his head delicately. 

Sherlock takes a couple shaky breaths, quieting down to nod his head in response. His responsiveness is a good sign, at least. Joan takes a moment to study the red, blotchy skin around her boy’s eyes, all thanks to forty-five minutes of weeping. Before she picks him up again, she drapes his blankie over the top of his head and around his back. He was still crying, albeit softer, and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. 

“Oh sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Joan shushes. “Joanie’s got you.”

They share a moment of silence, oscillating to and fro. Joan knew that trying to introduce a comfort object to the crying babe wouldn’t allay his discomfort at all. Perhaps it was preposterous to even think that his beloved Clyde Jr. wouldn’t cease his tears, but in Joan’s less than humble opinion, she knew that only her hugs could quiet him down. 

“Dada mean,” he snivels. “...‘N Mumma ‘n My…”

Joan’s heart sank. Of course, Joan should’ve known better. Her partner’s relationship with his family had always been a sore subject for him, even when he was big. His dream likely involved them in one way or another, and she could only begin to imagine how the baby was grappling with the fact that not only his mother had passed on, but his father and brother, too; if he’d even come to comprehend such a notion at all. Knowing him, Joan would be correct in believing he held himself responsible for the death of Morland Holmes. The only person who’s demise he’d legitimately be held accountable for would be his own if he went on tormenting himself in such a way. Joan was at a crossroad: what exactly do you say to a mourning seven-month-old?

“T-they’re gone now, baby,” she settled for. “They won’t hurt you ever again.”

In many aspects, Joan felt like a new mom. Who was she kidding, she _was_ a new mom: fantastically in love with her little one, yet scared shitless when it came to adequately meeting their needs. She knew giving her companion a second childhood would be no easy task, and yet she found herself doubting her instincts, asking whether or not she was even doing the right thing. 

Pulling herself together, Joan Watson knew with every fibre of her being she was a wonderful caregiver—she couldn’t be consumed by self-doubt, not now. She needed to be strong for Sherlock, for her baby. He needed her now more than ever.

Obviously she wanted him to honour his feelings and emotional reactions, but she felt hopeless. She did as best she could to keep her own tears at bay, but when it seemed his bawling only increased in volume, the caregiver let herself cry openly. 

Planting kisses to his temple, taking some time to dry her cheeks off with the outside of her hands, Joan walks over to their window, Sherlock still mewling like a, well, baby. It was nearly nine in the morning, and the sun’s rays were mellowed in effect by the clouds they hid behind. Maybe some Vitamin C would help him pacify him?

Joan takes him up to the roof, blanket and all, and sits down on one of the kitchen chairs in front of their apiary. She pats his diapered bum a few times before she situates Sherlock snuggly on her lap so that they can both get a good view of the bustle of busy bumblebees going about their daily business.

Much like his forty-something-year-old adult counterpart, baby Sherlock is infatuated with the insects. Instantaneously, his tears come to a stop when Joanie pulls the magnifying glass closer to their line of sight. He’s glued to the creatures, watching them crawl around the vivarium, serving their Queen. Joan thought back to one of their first genuine conversations, where he told her he’d named a newborn species after her. They’ve come a long way since then, yet their time together was nowhere near concluded. 

Next week, Sherlock and Joan would harvest honey from the bees just as they did every year and share many cups of tea made with the saccharine nectar. But right now, a certain little boy was grieving and needed a serious pick-me-up. 

“You know what the honeybees do, right my little honeybee?” Joan asked, wiping the moisture from his right cheek before placing a kiss just below his cheekbone. 

“Buzzzzzz buzz, Joanie?” Sherlock proposed, sliding his pointer and middle finger into his mouth.

“Good job, sweetie. What a smart little honeybee you are,” Joan praised, tickling his sides, thankfully eliciting a few sad giggles from the baby. The worst of the storm had passed.

Joan was confident in her ability to weather the turbulence of this newfound “parenthood”—what they have surpasses special, and she knew for a fact that it was going to take a lot more than a silly nightmare to get her to delve into the unforgiving waters of uncertainty. 

And, when he finally confides in her both the manifest and latent content of his nightmare the next day, she pulls him into a tight hug and lets him vent about the people who hurt him, yet who he cared for so profoundly.

For too long, Sherlock Holmes survived the hardships of emotional damage alone. Joan is his saving grace, the one who would always be there to fight his demons right alongside him. Anytime he needed her, she would come running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you'd have to say. If not, thank you nonetheless! Stay safe & healthy out there. Xx


	9. Uncle Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sherlock wins over his Uncle Marcus!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y’all, hope you’ve been well. Just want to be serious for a second: I am a firm believer in the notion that ACAB. Elementary is a crime/mystery procedural, so I guess not technically a cop show, but still I just wanted to let y’all know who I am. I’m a teenage girl who writes silly fanfic in her free time abt fictional people in very fictional situations, and while I may write about characters who happen to be of this profession, it doesn’t mean I support them in real life. BLM is not a trend, and it sure as hell isn’t going anywhere. Here’s a master-post for resources: https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/  
> Thank you! Hope you enjoy this chapter. 
> 
> P.S. Meme, darling, sorry it’s taken me so long to get to your suggestion! (They wanted some good, ol' separation anxiety). But alas, here it is!

Marcus Bell was a sensible man. In fact, he knew from the instant he heard Sherlock Holmes’ deductions at the scene of Casey McManus’ death that _he_ was _not_. But, it didn’t take long for Marcus to accept the notion that it was his unorthodox ways that made him such an asset to the NYPD and the world at large. Sherlock was like no man he’d ever encountered–handsome no doubt, rude most of the time, and a bonafide genius with an honest tongue that spewed astronomical knowledge without remorse. As the years passed and the two became close enough to consider the other family, eventually Marcus was convinced there wasn’t anything new Sherlock could tell him that’d effectively stun or faze him.

The 11th precinct had been unusually quiet that day. Marcus, being the reasonable fellow he was, knew that not everything was always as it seemed: Joan had left with Gregson five hours prior to talk to a vic’s family and he hadn’t heard from either one since they left that morning. Sure, their team would go long spells without communicating with one another, but that usually meant they had reached one-too-many dead ends. He wasn’t worried one iota—it wasn’t the place for that kind of reaction just yet. 

If there was anyone who _was_ troubling him, it was without a shadow of a doubt Sherlock. The man in question had been on edge all day long, pacing the floor, shooting off at the mouth, obsessively checking his phone... Their latest case wasn’t exactly the most pressing—at least, Marcus didn’t think so, Sherlock of course had his alternative theories—but something was obviously bothering the Brit enough for him to be bouncing off the walls, stressed out like he’d never seen him be before.

“You okay, man? You seem kinda antsy,” Marcus comments, eyeing his friend, searching for tell-tale answers to his previous question. “Pretty sure the bathroom’s unoccupied if you need it.”

Sherlock shifted his body weight against Marcus’s desk and started to nibble on the end of his right thumb, staring off into space, barely even making note of his last comment. “Watson hasn’t spoken to me since we got here this morning. I’ve left her nearly _ten_ voicemails. Did you see her walk in with the Captain at all?”

He shook his head. “Nope, I haven’t seen ‘em, same as you.”

He pulls his thumb away from his mouth and begins to massage it against his pointer finger, still deep in concerned contemplation as a storm brews in his brain. The detective noticed a somewhat drastic shift in the man’s oddities and couldn’t help but imagine smoke steaming out from both his ears as the gears kept on grinding; after all, Marcus had never taken Sherlock as one to self-sooth. “They could be in a compromisable position for all we know, Marcus. It’s been far too long, we cannot possibly go on like this, I-I’ll assemble a search party! Yes, my colleagues at Everyone can track their cellular devices, or perhaps _I_ should tap into them and we could efficiently locate who took them—”

“Sherlock, it’s _okay_. No one took them, they probably just got held up with the family. Their ‘kidnappers’ would’ve been on our trail by now to get some hush money, anyway. Go get some water from the fountain, take a walk. It’ll help you... I dunno, cool down.” Marcus eyes him, watching as he continues to rub his fingers together vigorously.

Much to his surprise, as the other man stands and rounds a corner at the end of the precinct’s hallway, vanishing from sight, Marcus can feel his coat pocket vibrating. Fumbling to finish the sentence of an email he was typing on his computer, the detective pulls out his device to click ‘accept’ on the call, not even bothering to check the Caller ID.

“Detective Bell speaking,” he manages hastily.

_“Kid, we got ‘em.”_

He recognises the voice immediately: _Gregson—_ Thank _God._ Marcus takes a deep breath. “What happened?”

The detective can hear his boss let out a burdensome sigh. _“Perp was hiding out in his fiancée’s basement. He was working with her to murder the fiancée’s mother. Joan caught her in a lie, we searched the house, meandered down to the basement… you know Joan, the guy was no match for her,”_ he states, and Marcus can almost sense the Captain’s smile through the phone. _“But, he did manage to break one of her shoes and smash her cell in the process. Holmes hasn’t tried contacting her at all, has he?”_

Ah. So, as it turned out, this case _was_ something he should’ve been worried about. C’est la vie. “Yeah, he has. Let her know. I think you guys should get back to the precinct as soon as possible. He’s been acting a little… strange.”

This time, Gregson really does laugh. _“That’s just Holmes, you know that. The day Hell freezes over is the day Sherlock Holmes does anything remotely mundane.”_

Marcus shakes his head to himself. “No, Captain, I really think something’s up. He’s more stir-crazy than usual. Fidgety, like a little kid, you know?”

_“Alright, well, I’m sure Joan’ll thank you for watching out for him. See you soon, Marcus.”_

“Stay safe.” He ends the call, sliding his phone back into his jacket.

Marcus lets out a considerably loud yelp as he turns around to find Sherlock standing cartoonishly close in proximity to his face—he can tell his eyebrows are crumpled inward in palpable distress and that he’s holding two tiny, plastic cups filled with water, which don’t seem to spill at all. Typical.

“Was that Watson? What of her? Has she acknowledged my means of communication and purposefully ignored them on occasion of what we spoke of back at home?” The questions gush from his mouth, disorienting Marcus just a little. He would’ve kept going, too, if Marcus didn’t place a hand on his shoulder, taking one of the cups from him. That should’ve been the most obvious indicator to him, as he knew for a fact that Sherlock wasn’t exactly a ‘touchy-feely’ kind of guy.

“Listen, that was the Captain. You know they left to go talk to the ‘vic’s’ family this morning, but ended up making a couple arrests about an hour or so ago. The bride and groom-to-be strangled the in-laws. I’m sure that must’ve been one of your theories that I just tuned out, right?” He takes a sip from his cup.

“Yes, I could legitimately care less of their idiocy to cover up such a messy job. Marcus, what about _Watson._ ”

Marcus finishes drinking and throws his cup in the trash under his desk. “Gregson told me she got tangled up with the fiancé after she found his hiding place in their basement, and that our guy ended up smashing her phone and one of her boots. Like I said, nothing to worry about, she’s okay—”

“ _No_ , it _isn’t!_ I wan’ _Joanie!_ ”

The floor goes dead silent. Hell, a mouse could’ve dropped a pin on it’s tiptoes and the sound would've echoed throughout the precinct—to get a room full of mostly native New Yorkers to be that quiet, Sherlock would’ve been proud on any separate affair. But, no, upon the entire population gluing their eyes to him, the Brit scurries off. 

“Sherlock, _wait—_ ”

Before Marcus can so much as blink, he’s up and running; a few of his colleagues reach for their holsters, but the detective signals to stand down, heading after him. The precinct isn’t exactly vast in terms of square footage, but Marcus felt like he was chasing after Sherlock for hours and hours on end. He manages to wedge his foot in the door of an empty interrogation room Sherlock found before he could successfully shut him out. Thankfully, they were on the inside of the mirror, so they had total privacy—he knew that’d be essential for a situation such as the one he presently found himself in.

“You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on, Holmes?” he pries exasperatedly, slamming the door behind him. In the past, Marcus was used to dealing with Sherlock’s theatrics, but some days he was more fed up than others. He moves away from him, backing into a corner of the tiny space almost as if in fear. Marcus was perplexed, but it didn’t take him long to deduce that there was, in fact, no ‘Holmes’ present—the hyper-intelligent Englishman vanished from view, and it was like in his place was a much, much younger child who was missing someone very important to him… Marcus had to investigate for himself where it was _he_ disappeared to. Marcus reminded himself of his training: how to comfort a hysterical victim, how to remain collected in tense situations, things of that nature. 

He wasn’t crying. That was a good sign, at least. Marcus couldn’t handle tears.

He can hear Sherlock’s breathing become laboured as he reaches the pique of his panic attack. He inches nearer, hoping his frightened friend wouldn’t try to push him away again. “H-Hey, it’s alright, just…” Marcus nears closer to the obviously upset man-child. “Take deep breaths. In n’ out, kid, in n’ out. Do it with me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock allows him to place another hand on his shoulder, the two locking eyes as they practice regulating his breathing. He’s still shaking, and likely wouldn’t stop anytime soon, so it seemed all Marcus could do was be there for him and make sure he didn’t hyperventilate or pass out until Joan got to the 11th. Marcus is slightly shocked when Sherlock looks at him with sad, doe-like eyes; he couldn’t remember a time when those same keen eyes weren’t burdened with precision. There’s a first for everything (he supposed) and sensible as he was, Marcus knew everything would make sense soon. 

Sherlock sniffles, blinking away what Marcus can make out as the beginning of tears. “Joanie left?” he asks bashfully. 

Joanie? Yeah, that’s what he called her out on the floor. Since when on earth did he even start calling her that? Marcus couldn’t recall. He disregards the affectionate name for his sake. “She’s comin’, buddy, don’t fret,” he reassures him in a hushed tone. “Joanie’s comin’ for ya.”

They wait in the room for another twenty minutes or so. Marcus texts the Captain to let him know where they were, asking politely for Joan to meet them there when she made it safely to the precinct. Sherlock currently had a death grip on his right hand, and Marcus wouldn’t lie, it was a little awkward and his hand was starting to cramp up—Sherlock wasn’t _physically_ a little kid, after all. Nonetheless, he stayed with him and tried to keep the kid occupied for the time being. 

When there’s a knock, Marcus thanks whatever merciful God that was listening and promised them he’d be a better person. Her fingers curl around the side of the door and she hesitantly pushes it open. Sherlock’s gaze grows worrisome, but the millisecond he registers his caregiver has come for him, he frees Marcus from his clutches and instantly attaches himself to Joan like a baby koala would to its mother. He seems almost… _smaller._ Marcus couldn’t exactly pinpoint the exact word, but ‘smaller’ just made sense. 

Joan is immediately agape as he nearly swept her off her feet in his embrace. “Sherlock, woah!” she exclaims as he squeezes his arms around her torso.

Marcus shook his head. “I dunno what happened between you guys, but he’s been asking for you all day long and after a while when you weren’t responding, he started to get really distressed. He blew up in front of the entire floor and came in here. Luckily I got a hold of him before he got a chance to shut me out,” he explained. “He called you ‘Joanie.’ In the years I’ve known you both, he’s never called you anything other than Watson.”

As the realisation hits Joan like an unhinged freight car at full-speed, she starts to rub circles on her little’s back to keep him from fussing. Sherlock only holds her tighter. “I knew we shouldn't have come in today,” she says under her breath. “I-I’m so sorry, Marcus, he just gets separation anxiety from time to time, we’ve been working on it. I can explain, I know you must be thin—”

“Stop, please. Just—” Marcus massages the bridge of his nose. Being close-minded only gets you so far in life. “Help me understand.”

Joan hadn’t exactly rehearsed a proper explanation in her head. What would she say? _Oh, yeah, sometimes my fully-adult, platonic-life-partner acts like an infant to cope with his trauma, and I just so happen to take care of him? There was one time when he was so sick he blew chunks all over me and wouldn’t stop crying, hell, our neighbors came over to make sure he wasn’t being abused! What about the one where he ran around the house completely naked and I had to chase him for an hour just to put some clothes on him?_ That’d send anyone significantly “normal” running for the hills. If she’d have been more careful, maybe this wouldn't have happened. Of course, both Joan and Sherlock trusted and cared for the detective like no other, but would Marcus knowing about this aspect of their relationship compromise their professional lives? Would he tell the Captain, would they be dropped from the NYPD as consultants for the scene he caused?

 _No_. Joan needed to get a hold of herself! This was Marcus Bell: a man she had full faith in, the proud owner of a golden, compassionate heart that knew no earthly bounds. If anything, he’d be a tad shaken, but once he heard what she had to say, he’d be alright. There was nothing to worry about. 

And so, took a deep breath and explained the gist of their situation to him. How a few years back, his night terrors were too much to cope with on his own and that was when she suggested the age regression as a means to soften their blow. How it was their way of communicating their needs to one another. How they _both_ benefited from it. She was somewhat vague, but Marcus got the point. Joan appreciated how he so intently listened to her, really trying to absorb every bit of information she shared with him. 

He was honestly speechless. “Wow. I-I mean, I knew you guys were close, but… Well, I don’t want to overstep anything…”

“I know it’s a weird position to put you in, we’re just gonna head home now,” she states, taking her partner by the hand and turning toward the door, grabbing hold of the handle. 

Marcus was at a mental crossroads: he could simply let them leave, holding onto their secret forever in anguished isolation and absolute confusion, or he could listen. Truly _listen,_ open his heart and mind to two people he cared so immensely about and let them know it didn’t matter what was going on, so long as both of them were healthy and well. He wasn’t the kind of man to leave his family high and dry. Joan and Sherlock _needed_ him, just like he needed them—it was time he came forward and showed them just how profoundly they mattered to him. 

“Joan _,”_ Marcus begs. “Please. I _want_ to be there for you guys. Yeah, what you guys do is...” honestly batshit crazy, never heard anything like it before, kind of makes me a little sick to my stomach? “ _Out of the ordinary_ , but that doesn’t mean I think any less of you or Sherlock. I’m just not used to whatever this is yet.”

Sherlock breaks away from hugging Joan and stands behind her. Marcus may be _big_ Sherlock’s friend, but the itsy-bitsy consulting detective had no idea who he was. To the little boy, anybody who wasn’t Joan was to be feared unless she told him otherwise (she knew eventually she’d have to introduce her boy to new people, to aid him properly work through the heartbreaking nature of his disquieting upbringing, but she just didn’t expect that day to come so soon). In the end, would it really be so bad to let him in?

“Thank you. That… um, that means a lot to us.” Joan takes a moment to swipe some loose strands of hair away from her face, lending Marcus a sad smile in return. “We’ll talk more about this soon, okay?”

Marcus sighs. “Yeah, okay. Take care, Joan.”

“You too,” she reciprocates. “C’mon, Sherlock, we’re heading home now.” Marcus can see him nod against her shoulder before pulling away, barely even looking at him, essentially cementing himself to Joan’s side. As the two exit the room, she happens to look back at him and mouth another goodbye before leaving Marcus by his lonesome.

He had a lot of thinking to do.

* * *

Joan and Sherlock didn’t come back to work for another two days. For, ahem, _obvious_ reasons.

When they do, Sherlock approaches Marcus at his desk, Joan by his side. He seems well rested, but pale. Nervous? No, that wasn’t the Sherlock Marcus knew. “I’d like to invite you to dinner tonight,” he says. “To meet someone, um, rather _special_ to Joan and I, and to feasibly answer your most grave questions concerning what transpired a few days prior.” 

Marcus smiles that million-dollar smile of his. “Thank you. I’ll… definitely be there.”

Sherlock nods. “Good. Now then, I couldn’t help but overhear the curious circumstances of the Charlie Magnussen case on the police radio this morning.” 

He walks off with striking purpose, clearly unmoved by the interaction they’d just shared. Joan and Marcus share a knowing look and head after him—there never was a dull moment when working with a man like him.

* * *

The last time Marcus Bell was _this_ nervous, he was back in high school taking a Trig final. With a steady hand, he knocks on the Brownstone’s grandiose doors. In under a minute, Joan opens it, greeting him with a warm smile. God, he loved that smile.

It’s just dinner… What could go wrong?

He holds out the bouquet of flowers he bought from a local florist, waiting for her to (hopefully) accept them. “I-I would’ve brought wine, but I know you don’t like to keep alcohol in the house. Don’t want to intentionally trigger anything.”

“Thank you. They’re beautiful,” she takes them, lowering her nose to take in the intoxicating aroma of the beautiful hydrangeas. “Come on in. Sherlock’s just playing in the living room.”

Hanging his jacket in the foyer, Marcus mentally prepared himself for what he was about to lay witness to. Travelling further into the depths of their home, sure enough, there sat the snarky Englishman atop a fluffy yellow blanket, building up a tower of wooden blocks, suckling on an oversized pacifier. If Marcus wasn’t significantly taken aback, he’d be positively cooing over how cute and at peace with his surroundings his coworker appeared. He did his best to hide any inkling of astonishment by flashing a welcoming smile unto the sitting boy, hoping to elicit some sort of pleasant reaction from him. This was their first official ‘meeting,’ after all, and Marcus wanted to make a good impression on little Sherlock.

“Hey, bud,” he greets, lounging on their maroon sofa yet making a kind effort to engage with him. Joan had gone into the kitchen to check on their dinner and find an adequate vase for her new flowers, so for the time being, it was just the fellas enjoying each other’s company. “Whatcha got there?”

The babe holds up one wooden block in one hand and a little bee plushie in the other. Whoever this child was, he had no boundaries or walls to fear in the comfort of his own home. He crawls over to the “new” man to investigate him in further detail, planting himself by his feet, and even goes so far as to offer him one of his toys. Joanie loved to play with him, of course she did, but baby Sherlock didn’t exactly have a wide variety of playmates to choose from. He babbles some nonsensical words behind his pacifier, and Marcus does his best to appear in shock or surprised by what the boy was showing him, going along with what he guessed he was saying. As the gurgling continued, the man would ask him questions and would exaggerate his reactions to continue to portray to Sherlock that he was invested in learning about his coping mechanism. “I can’t believe it!” Marcus exclaims. “Don’t tell me it was the bee! Oh, I can’t handle the news! Show me the autopsy report!” To which the baby bursts out in the most adorable giggles he couldn’t believe were actually coming from a fully-grown man. While Marcus was pretty apprehensive of all this at the beginning of the night, he was frankly enjoying himself more than he anticipated. 

“What’re you boys up to in here?”

They look over to Joan, standing near the bookcase before joining them in the common room, sitting down in a leather chair, crossing her legs. “Dinner’s ready. I hope you guys aren’t having too much fun without me~” Joan states with a smile, obviously grateful for Marcus’ budding relationship with her little. 

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Marcus winks down at the baby. “We’re having absolutely no fun at all.”

After yet another fit of giggles, little Sherlock focuses on his caregiver and starts to blather at her while opening and closing his hand—he obviously wanted something, but Marcus couldn’t figure out what, exactly. Joan, on the other hand, knew precisely what he was attempting to give voice to. 

“No, sweetie, we’re having yummy potstickers tonight. You can have some before we go to sleep,” she reassures him. Sherlock clearly found the answer he was looking for, and crawled back over to the blanket near her chair where the rest of his blocks remained.

Marcus cocks an eyebrow at her. “Wait, did he say something?”

Joan smiles once more. “A few months back, Sherlock basically begged me to learn some baby sign-language. Prattling on about it’s copious benefits in one of his morning lectures. I will say, whenever he gets fussy or is just completely nonverbal and I can’t get a straight answer out of him, it’s beyond helpful.” She stifles a laugh, running a hand through his hair as she stands. “It was a pain in the A-S-S in the beginning to actually get him to associate certain words with the motions I was doing, but after a while it clicked.” 

“So, I’m guessing that _this—_ ” Marcus copy-cats the same open-and-close locomotion of his hand just like they’d done, “—means ‘milk?’” 

Joan nods. “We’ve got six main ones we use: _milk, change, food, sleep, play,_ and _all done._ But, his favourite sign right now happens to be _no._ Ha, I’m doing my best to keep his vocabulary on the encouraging side, also wanted to incorporate some basic manners into it, but it seems like his adult personality will blend into his little one every so often.” 

“Ah, I see,” he remarks. “So the big man himself isn’t so far away, after all...”

She tilts her head in consideration. “I suppose so.” Joan kisses the top of her little’s head to get his attention. “Alright, gentlemen, I think it’s time we dig in, don’t you?”

The trio makes their way to the dining room, where she’s already set up a splendid meal for them. Joan didn’t necessarily like to cook, but whenever she did, let it be known that whoever ate her food would be glad to deem it the most delectable sustenance ever to grace their palates. She, of course, was seated at the “Godfather” position of the table, Sherlock to her left, Marcus to her right. In no time, the adults were chatting up a storm with one another; the man had truly forgotten how much him and Joan had in common—who knew when they weren’t trying to catch cold-blooded killers they had so much to catch up on? 

In between sentences, Joan would cut up a dumpling and feed Sherlock a piece. Surprisingly, as the night went on, she slipped more comfortably into her caregiver-headspace as she got the notion that Marcus was likewise secure in what he understood to be their relationship. In a way, the detective was incredulously aware of their devotion to one another: it was almost unfathomable to Marcus, the concept of adoring another person with all of their emotional bruises and scars, tackling life’s challenges hand-in-hand. No, he wasn’t _envious,_ so to say, but he was very happy that Joan and Sherlock—soulmates, no doubt—had found each other in this particular lifetime. Marcus hoped they would again and again if it meant he got to behold them falling in love each time.

They spent the entire meal laughing up a storm with one another, and while Sherlock remained pretty silent, focusing all his energy on eating without choking, he’d join in on their glee whenever it was present. Nearly three hours had passed and they’d all gone for thirds, cleaning their plates off, and enjoyed some vanilla ice cream with fresh brownies (it may have been from a box of Ghirardelli brownie mix, but it was far superior to banal, dime-a-dozen Betty Crocker) for their desert. After Joan had wiped Sherlock’s face clean of the stuff (he was a charmingly messy eater), Marcus helped her wash, dry, and put away all the dishes before they went back to the table to enjoy a cup of tea. Marcus noticed him begin to nod off here and there, slipping in and out of lucidity, rubbing at his eyes until it seemed he couldn’t burden them with remaining open any longer.

Joan was pretty in-tune to Sherlock’s volatile sleep schedule, both in and out of littlespace, and noted how the hands on her watch indicated it was a little past eight-thirty: he should’ve been put to bed a half-hour ago, but she hypothesised he made it somewhat longer than usual on account of enjoying someone new’s fellowship.

“Someone’s all tuckered out, huh?” she cooes at him, to which he nods and lazily signs the word for ‘sleep,’ just like Joan had shown him earlier. “It’s getting late, I should really get him to bed.”

“Yeah, of course,” Marcus agrees, observing the baby as he yawns for the third time in the past five minutes. 

She stands, and both men (one and a half?) do, as well. Sherlock draws himself nearer to his caregiver, letting himself be comforted in her embrace. Joan did what she could to keep his stimulation at a moderate amount, so as not to overload his senses, and she could tell he was on the brink of a possible upset if she didn’t get him settled soon. The other adult follows them to the bottom of the staircase, where they all know it’s time to say their goodbye’s for the evening.

“Can you say goodnight to Uncle Marcus, honeybee?”

“Nigh-nigh…” Sherlock mumbles sweetly, nuzzling his face back into the crook of Joan’s neck and slipping his thumb between his lips to soothe his languid woes.

Marcus exhales amusedly out of his nose. “Sweet dreams, kid. Thank you for having me.”

The two ascend to the first floor, and Marcus makes himself useful by cleaning up Sherlock’s toys from earlier. He folds up the fluffy blanket and places it in the chest by the fireplace, along with the blocks, some trains, and a couple teething rings. He examines each one with a soft smile, thinking back to the little boy he had gotten the pleasure to meet that night. It only hit him that Joan had referred to him as his ‘Uncle’ when he was straightening out the rest of the living room—his insides instantly grew warm and fuzzy. He’d be lying if he said he could wait until the next time he got to see his favourite, and only, ‘nephew.’ 

Joan comes back downstairs not ten minutes later, greeting him with a sleepy smile. Sherlock must’ve been pretty tired, having gone to sleep, no sweat. 

“So,” the detective begins, a giant smirk plastered on his lips. “Uncle Marcus, huh?”

In an instant, Joan’s grin had faded away. Did she cross a line? She thought the night went so well! “You don’t like it?” she asks, scratching an itch on the back of her arm.

“I don’t like it, I _love_ it,” Marcus affirms. He reaches for his coat. “In fact, it’s got one hell of a ring to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, and suggestions are appreciated (listen at this point I am b e g g i n g for prompts I feel like I'm running out!!). Stay safe & healthy out there, lovies Xx


	10. Master of Disguise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had the blasted baby monitor to thank for blowing his cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Hope you enjoy this chapter, lovies.

Did Sherlock anticipate to come out of his regression so quickly that fine autumn afternoon? The answer was a simple, astounding phrase: _bloody_ _of course not!_

One second, he’s as tiny a baby as can be, feeling nearly weightless as he’s unburdened with the stressors of his adult life and enjoying the closeness of his beloved caregiver, and the next he can sense his maturity creeping up on him and spoiling his relaxation. It was a horrible way to wake up, that much he was certain of, but what more could he do than hope for it to pass? 

The last thing he remembered that day was coming home from the precinct only to feed Clyde and the chickens, slip off his shoes, and crash on the couch. He can tell it’s been mere hours since his untimely “drop,” as he so fondly referred to it as, only because when he becomes lucid again, Joan is feeding him a bottle in the same clothes he picked out for her that morning. This had to be the very first instance of him being aware _afterwards,_ though; overall, Sherlock had very few memories of himself actually in a state of regression—it’s not as though his memory gave out completely, but more so that his sensory intake wasn’t as acute as when he was his regular self. Where adult Sherlock’s mind would be racing with theories and ideas a mile a minute, his infantile counterpart was only concerned with two very important commodities he required at all times: Joan, and his comfort objects (in that order). Sherlock may cling to Joan like NASA-grade, radioactive Gorilla Glue whilst in littlespace (which could become a tad unbearable whenever she needed to leave him alone for a couple minutes to finish an email or use the restroom), but all-in-all he was the sweetest, most lovable child and she couldn’t be more thankful for his presence in her life. 

When he aged up after their sessions, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Sherlock would inform her of his current state of mind, she’d become flustered for realising she was babying a fully-grown man, he’d likewise experience sheepishness upon recognising how much he _enjoyed_ said babying, and would waddle off to the bathroom to reset to his habitual, cocky self. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a little pouty when she wouldn’t fret and fuss over him like she would when he was little, but after some time, Sherlock would adjust to reality and count the minutes until the next time he was able to regress again... Not that he’d ever openly admit to such a fact, though.

Shuffling his lower half ever so slightly, he could tell Joan had diapered him (as she always did, simply to devoid from accidents) and dressed him in a footed sleeper, even though it wasn’t nighttime. His knees were tucked into his stomach comfortably, his fingers laced into her blouse as if at any moment he believed she was going to be blown away by a gust of wind. He could also tell she was watching ‘20/20’ on her tablet as she tilted the glass vessel in a semi-downward position to ensure he drank at a slow enough pace. Her inherently caring nature never ceased to stun him. 

She’d wrapped a blanket around him, bringing it over the top of his head, creating a sort of little cocoon that only allowed him to get a clear view of her face. Resting against her bosom, Sherlock could hear her steady heartbeat, lulling him back to sleep alongside David Muir’s faint narration coming from the IPad. When he nears the last drops of milk, Joan slowly slides the bottle away from his lips and begins to pat his back gently. Sherlock was feeling somewhat adult despite his current position, but refrained from opening his eyes or making it known to Joan that he wanted to stop cuddling. He wanted to fully see what Joan was like in _her_ headspace and figured now was as good a time as ever to disguise himself as, well, himself. Maybe not his forty-something-year-old self, but the more infantile version that granted him refuge every so often. Being a master in almost every known accent and spoken language known to man had its perks, certainly, but the true test of Sherlock’s expertise was upon him: to convince his dear Watson he was still a genuine babe-of-mind. 

Ever the seasoned caregiver, Joan cleverly burped him and wiped his spit-up with a bib she used just for his bottle-feeding sessions. Sherlock didn’t actually expect himself to drool all over her, but she didn’t appear to mind one piece for his babyish actions and cleaned him up swiftly. When he yawned, Joan looked down at him from her show and smiled effervescently at the boy. 

“Oh, that was a big yawn, little one,” she remarks, fully not expecting him to respond. He didn’t.

When the two make eye contact, Sherlock can feel his insides grow warm and fuzzy—he was positive he’d never experienced the cocktail of emotions that were coursing through his body as of present. Certainly, he “knew” romantic, sexual adoration with Irene-slash-Jaime, and it was Joan who proved to him the importance of _platonic_ love, but as she peered deep into his heart, Sherlock knew what they shared with each other ran far deeper than such an unembellished label. With one, miniscule look, Joan Watson was able to convey to him his utmost importance in her day-to-life. They really were the only people who ever mattered to each other. 

He manages a lazy smile before she leans over to kiss the tip of his nose. As if on command, she lays him down on the mattress and uncovers him from the blankets. _“What on earth is she doing?_ ” he wonders, until he can feel her unzipping the sleeper he was wearing at the front. In an instant, she has his bum exposed under a changing mat and has removed a previously soiled nappy—something Sherlock hadn’t even realised until she was taking care of it. The Englishman can feel his entire face heating up with embarrassment, but instantaneously recalls the “part” he was supposed to be playing: an infant can’t comprehend basic shame for their bodily functions, and so he had to do his best to mask his adult discomfiture. While Joan is busy peeling off the wet diaper from his nether regions, Sherlock does his best impersonation of a newborn, keeping turned to his right side, cooing softly as his caregiver tends to his cleanliness. 

“Someone’s talkative tonight,” Joan laughs, amused at whatever it was he was trying to say to her and/or the world at large. “What’s on your mind, honey?”

 _“Ah, so she engages with my littlespace!”_ Sherlock was beyond thankful Joan didn’t use that patronising, ‘baby-talk’ voice like most adults did whenever they spoke to animals or children, as he knew she was far too empathetic to treat him in such a manner. He turns his head towards her and starts to blow a raspberry, giggling when her eyes light up with glee. “Mmmabama, gah, ammama,” he babbles, feeling his heart swell with glee when she looks down at him as though he were her entire world. Sherlock wished she would look at him like that forever.

“Oh, that’s very interesting. I never knew that about Captain Gregson. Did you ask Marcus what _his_ favourite song was?”

Sherlock was internally shaking his head. He continued to gurgle up at her, trying to come up with new combinations of nonsense syllables to keep their makeshift conversation going. 

When she tapes him into a fresh diaper and closes up the sleeper, she leans forward to pepper his jaw in kisses, which in turn increases his giggles in number and volume. Sherlock playfully and weakly attempts to push her away, yet she only continues to plant her lips all over his giggly face. After a minute of tickling him senseless, Joan does her best to calm him down and get him ready for his afternoon nap. He’d already taken somewhat of a kip when they got back home, but she knew just as well as the rest of their street that if he didn’t have a proper sleep, he’d be weepy for the duration of the day. 

Joan strokes his cheeks with her thumbs, humming an old lullaby, watching him battle with his overt tiredness. Sherlock usually rests around a full hour or two on a good regression day, and since their morning had been quite eventful, she anticipates him to sleep a little more than his regular stretch. As much as Joan loved to spend time with her baby boy, she was in dire need—and _want_ —of a long, hot shower. She recently upped her workout regime in terms of intensity and was feeling incredibly sore all around; she knew the warm water would more than appease her aching muscles. 

Once she closes the blinds in their room and climbs back onto the bed with him, she rationalises it would be best to lay him down on the Queen mattress as opposed to his crib—she knew he’d only fuss and feel trapped behind the bars, especially because he was in such a young headspace. 

He internally rolled his eyes. How dull was it that the mind of he, the great Sherlock Holmes, could be expected to be pacified and swept off to dreamland with a puerile tune! He lets a quiet whine escape his throat, to which his caregiver methodically hushed by swaying him ever so slightly until the whimpering died down. Sherlock allowed himself to succumb to the temptations of the soft vibrations, her sweet berceuse subduing him to sleep. 

As she reaches the end of her melody, a sense of relief consumes her as his eyelids surrender to slumber. When his breathing finally evens out and his grip on her loosens, Joan slips out from underneath him, quickly pulls up the baby monitor app on her tablet, and closes the door to their bedroom behind her. She thanked her lucky stars he was out like a light in no time. 

She was really looking forward to that shower.

* * *

Joan was grateful she was able to be quite productive whilst the baby rested peacefully. After her scalding wash, she put on some comfier relaxing clothes and headed to her office. She opened her laptop, searching for a suitable writing utensil and the notebook she usually used to take notes on their cases with—she found her deductive reasoning flowed at a speedier pace if she wrote out certain specific events on a single page. Her cell phone, which she cleverly propped up against her lamp, was quietly playing the live video feed of Sherlock fast asleep. She took a moment to revel in his adorable snuffling and snoring, wishing she could take a nap with him like they usually did. As precious as he was, she knew she should really focus on her assignments for the time being.

Before Joan knew it, her pen was scribbling down theories about potential perpetrators, conclusions fairly close to being drawn. She made sure to always text back Marcus and the Captain whenever they reached out to her; even on the days when the duo would work or do their research from home, they made sure to keep close conversations with them in order to close cases in timely-enough manners when they actually went out on the field to talk to families, collect evidence, things of that nature. She’d printed out relevant photos pertaining to their current case and pinned them up on her cork bulletin board. Sherlock, a visual learner, had informed her in her early days of detective work that it was extremely helpful to his process to have solid representations of what he already knew. A simple word, image, or even artifact could spark new neural pathways much quicker than if one’s reasoning was simply done mentally, in silence. She may have only recently claimed the title of his loving caregiver and companion, but he would always be _her_ teacher, no matter how many years they worked together. Aside from their obvious chemistry, she knew that was essentially why they performed so harmoniously together in a professional setting: not a day would go by that they two didn’t learn a single thing from the other. Their senses would remain keen, ready to tackle any and every new contingency that enhanced their collective game.

Two hours later, as she was just getting off a routine phone call with her brother, Orin, Joan could hear some shuffling noises coming from the table top. Sherlock had woken up from his nap two hours later feeling incredulously well-rested and significantly less moody than before. He stretches his limbs in all directions, sighing as a tight tension is released from his muscles, allowing himself to feel completely refreshed and ready to take on the rest of his day. 

_“Ugh, my God,”_ she hears him sigh through the screen, rolling his neck in hopes to relieve the excess rigidity from his body. She observes him as he wipes some sweat from his brow, looking down at the onesie she’d dressed him in earlier. He smiles amusedly, scanning the room for any signs of Joan, only to realise he was essentially submerged in virtual darkness. This specific app (which cost her all of $1.50 on the Apple Store, but was completely worth it) had a sort of nocturnal lense that allowed her to see clearly what her little one is up to. For the impressive consulting detective he is, Sherlock is completely unaware of the fact that he’s being watched or heard on the IPad that isn’t two feet away from him. “ _What in—?”_

Joan chuckled softly to herself, as she figured he’d woken up from his nap completely aged up. He’d come downstairs eventually and greet her, thank her, and go about his own business until he would ultimately suggest dinner at the appropriate hour of approximately seven. She can tell by the way in which he stretched his arms out that he was back to his adult mindframe; baby Sherlock’s movements had a particular laziness to them—this Sherlock stirred precisely and even spoke in his lower tone of voice, laced with unforgiving testosterone.

Just as Joan is about to turn off the monitor app, she can hear a certain someone’s breath begin to hitch sadly. _“Jo-oeyy,”_ he cries out in his best ‘baby-voice,’ reaching out his arms to her, seeking his caregiver’s sympathies, even though she wasn’t physically present. He was clearly back to his maturity, so why was he putting on this whole charade? 

Joan would have to play along and unmask the culprit for herself.

She swiftly ascends the many floors of the Brownstone until she finds herself nudging open the door to their bedroom, turning on the lights to see Sherlock sobbing his wee heart nearly out of his chest; damn, he was a good actor, even whilst teetering on different headspaces!

“Oh, hello, sweetpea,” she cooes, unravelling the mewling man from the blankets to draw him into her embrace. “What’s the matter?”

But of course, the weeping babe says not a word to her. He clings to her as if for his mortal soul, yet his overall crying appears to subside as she begins to massage his back, giving his padded bum a few loving pats to remind him she was there for him, now.

“I know, you had a nice long nap, didn’t you?” she questions, to which he pitifully nods. “I know what’ll cheer you up. Wanna go downstairs and eat some yummy bananas?”

“‘Nanas?” the baby repeats, letting a few final dewey tears gush down his pink cheeks. 

She wipes away the stray droplets from his face, kissing him on the side of his head. “Yeah, baby, Joanie’s gonna get you some ‘nanas. But first, let’s get you into something a little cooler, hmm?” Sherlock seems to agree with her, despite the fact that he’s busied himself with saying “‘nanas,” over and over again, as she takes him out of the footie pajamas. 

She sits him down on the bed again while she goes over to their drawers to pick out an adorable tee-shirt that has the recurring characters from Sesame Street printed on it. She dresses him, clips on a pacifier, and takes note of the fact that he didn’t use the diaper at all. She takes Ms. Hudson’s blanket from off the mattress, taking Sherlock’s hand in her own before they head to the kitchen so she can get her baby his post-naptime snack. 

When she lays out his blankie on the kitchen floor, he quickly plants himself on it, popping the dummy that was attached to him into his mouth. Surveying the room for his beloved stuffies, he crawls into the living room, making a B-line for the toy box, where he grabs Clyde Jr. and a new furry friend, a brown bear he lovingly called Babs, before comfortably situating himself back onto his bottom to play and babble to his heart’s content while his caregiver cut up the fruit he so kindly requested.

The fact that he was enjoying all this somewhat vexed Joan. She didn’t appreciate being lied to under any circumstances—their relationship was built on the solid foundations of pertinent communication. If there was something wrong with either of them, they should be able to come to the other and work it through _together._ Joan knew just how far she had to baby him before he’d become flustered and “break character,” revealing his true age to her. 

She put the baby-sized pieces of fresh strawberries and bananas into a little plastic dish and dried her hands off on the dish towel that hung on the oven door before bringing it to him. “Here you go, honeybee,” she says, offering him the bowl. “Use two hands for me, please.”

He looks up from his playing to mumble a “t’ank yoo, ‘ama!” before his paci falls out of his mouth and he begins to munch away, slightly bouncing in excitement as he ate his yummy treat. Maybe she was overthinking this; maybe he really was still regressed and just so happened to slip into a bit of an older headspace after he woke up from the nap. It was Sherlock himself who told her that it’s a person’s first instinct that’s correct 99.9% of the time—it wouldn’t hurt to see, after all. 

“You’re welcome, sweetie,” she smiles genuinely. “ _Here goes nothing,”_ she muses to herself.

Occupied with his food, Joan walks behind him and bends slightly over. She takes her middle and index fingers and pulls back the waistband of his nappy, taking a gander at his tushy to see if he’d indeed used it. The nappy crinkled loudly when she did so, and Sherlock’s eyes shot open as his face turned beet-red in sheer mortification. 

_“Watson!”_ shrieks the man-child, whipping his head back to take a look at his partner, who was laughing in gleeful triumph. “What does my arse have to do with anything right now?!”

“Aha! _I knew it!”_ she proclaims, doing a sort-of happy dance as she mentally pats herself on the back for believing her hunch. “So you _aren’t_ little!”

His eyebrows turn inward, and Joan can see his baby-blues begin to well with humiliated tears. “W-what?! How could you have known that?”

She grabs her phone and pulls up the footage of him from earlier coming out of littlespace. Sherlock watches in disbelief, indeed taking note of that fact that his mannerisms would’ve indeed been a dead give-away to his genuine headspace. “You surveillance me whilst I sleep?!” he asks, stupefied; he thought he was in total privacy!

“Of course I do! You’re a _baby_ , Sherlock, I’m not gonna leave you unattended just so you can keep your pride,” Joan explains. What heartless parent or guardian in general would leave their little one all alone like that? Certainly not her. 

Sherlock clutches Babs closer to his chest for moral-support. “Perhaps I don’t like the distance between us when I’m _not_ a baby!” Sherlock confesses. “When I’m small, it seems there isn’t an instance where we two are not in concert, cuddling or playing o-or just simply together in the same room. Every time I go back to being big, unless we’re working on a case, it’s as though you disappear from sight or would prefer that we are distant. I-I thought that if I could disguise my true self and convince you that you were still in the midst of an infant, you wouldn’t leave. I have substantial reason to believe that you’d rather I remain in a child-like state of mind 24/7, especially if we’re going to be in each other’s company for long periods of time. Is it true, Watson?”

Joan’s heart sank in her chest—she didn’t expect her big, little man to open up so much to her. “Oh, honeybee, of course not…” she goes to sit right next to him on the blanket, pulling him into a hug, which he surprisingly reciprocates. “If I’m being honest, I don’t like how things are afterwards, either. I’m so sorry you think I’m distancing myself from you, I never want you to think I’m ever far away,” Joan begs in forgiveness. “You just always seem so flushed after our sessions, I’m never sure if you want time to yourself or if you want me to be there with you while you get out of littlespace. I love you, whether you’re my little baby or not.”

“I-I apologise as well, then.” He shakes his head slowly. “I like spending time with you...”

There’s a pure sadness to the smile that lifts her face up. “Maybe it’s time we started making some changes, huh?”

“I agree.” They share a moment of silence. Joan stands to go wash the dishes, believing the conversation was at a stand-still. “Watson?”

She turns to meet his gaze. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Can…” he takes a deep breath. “Can I stay little? Even though I’m big right now? It’d only be for a while longer, I promise.”

Joan kisses the top of his head. “You can be as little as you want for however long you desire, sweetie.” 

Sherlock smiles up at his caregiver and best friend. He grabs his rattle and shakes it a few times before popping a couple bits of the previously discarded fruits into his mouth. “Was it at least a convincing performance? Did I have you fooled at any point?” he asks.

“Hmm…” Joan ponders. “If it were up to me, I think there’d be an Academy Award somewhere in your future.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and supporting this story! Please leave a comment or some kudos if you'd like to! I'm also always open for prompts. Stay safe & healthy out there, lovies. Xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the read! If there are any scenarios you'd like to see play out, please feel free to comment them!


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